New York City Cares
by Zeki Young
Summary: CJSimon AU: Simon Donovan does not die (SIA). CJ and Simon become a part of each other's lives, until events beyond their control change their future. Angsty, romantic, general. CH3 Rhythm & Harmony may be M for content.
1. Miles

Series: New York City Cares

**Disclaimers**: The characters of the West Wing are not my property, I am not trying to make any money, just merely have a little fun. However, the character, "_Ferdinand Miles_" is mine.

**A/N**: This entire series takes place in an A.U., in which Simon Donovan did not die. This is my second attempt at Fan Fiction, It's a long one, but I hope if anyone starts reading it, you'll be able to follow it right on to the end. If you do read, please leave a little review, no matter what you think! It's all good. Thanks, peace, Zeki.

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Chapter I: Miles

The play seemed to take forever to come to it's closing number. The darkened room had tempted a few with sleep, but tensions in the Presidential seating area held their eyes fixed to the movements on stage. Two greying men held heavy burdens; they whispered urgently in the shadowy arches away from the bright lights and the rousing song below. Urgency seemed to be rife. CJ Cregg wanted nothing more than for the play to end; the butterflies in her stomach were unbearable.

Yellow and white neon light played off the silver hair of a man pacing the side-walk. The Milky Way hadn't settled him the way he'd hoped; the quick arrests he made had unsettled him further, his heart still beat hard in his chest. His hands clenched into fists, his head was buzzing with what ifs.

"So this is New York's latest hero then?" A cynical, yet familiar voice startled Simon; Detective Ferdinand Miles of the NYPD stood not a few feet away. A smile broke across the detective's face and he offered his friend an open hand of congratulations. Simon took his hand heartily and smiled a smile as if between brothers.

Ferdinand Miles wore a face brimming of character; his teeth shone pearly white, while laughter lines drew you into his warm, black eyes. He was about six inches shorter than the Secret Service agent, yet blessed with good looks that rivalled his handsome friend. It was fair to say he looked younger for their age; his hair was still jet black and he looked more at ease – he didn't carry the heavy burdens Simon Donovan did. Indeed, despite the many hours spent studying suspects' profiles, Special Agent Sunshine thought you'd never have guessed Miles had turned fifty the January of the year before. The stocky, solid frame of his body filled a sharp, stylish grey Italian suit, a sweeping black trench coat hung perfectly on his shoulders; just from the way he held himself and the sparkle in his eye, it was unsurprising to learn that he was respected and liked by the people of New York City.

The men stood there, studying one another, it had been almost a year – they had celebrated their fiftieths together just under a year ago in New York style; Ferdinand and his family had adopted Simon as Uncle and brother a many years ago.

"We got my guy by the way." Simon casually dropped in.

"Yeah, you folk from Treasury causing trouble in my neighbourhood as usual. I can't wait for your boys to take him home with you, Donovan – you know how busy I've been here."

"So I've heard, but you know body guarding isn't as cushy as you always make it out to be. Especially not this one."

"She been givin' y'all grief?"

"You could call it that." Simon actually managed to suppress his smile under the expressionless duty mask, but there are some things friends always see through. The detective stopped and thought for a second, studying his friend's face, he thought he'd play a little.

"Since you're done, you wanna get a beer?" There was a half knowing smile on his face. Simon paused, trying to think of a way to explain that he was hopefully about to meet an ex-protectee for a date; knowing full well that Miles was no fool.

"Uh, I've got to debrief."

"Debrief huh? That can' wait?" Simon was stuck for words. "You goin' to woo her tonight ain't ya?"

"Miles!"

"Hey, I know you, and I ain't seen tha' look on you face for near twenty years"– Simon cut him off, his steel blue eyes burned cold.

"That was not my Aimee face, Miles."

"Hey, easy big guy – I didn't say that!"

"You said enough. CJ is nothing like her!"

"I hope no woman you meet is like her Simon! Why don't you just let it go?"

"Because!" There was a silence; Ferdinand's warm eyes resisted the deep freeze of his friend's. The men stood in a moment of potential; energy swelled up around Simon's heart and threatened to erupt. Miles knew what was best when his friend got like this. So, trying to hold in a deep laugh, he breathed out his words in a half whisper.

"So… y'all taken her for a date a'ready?" Simon's fury was let loose:

"Of course not damn you! She's a protectee!"

"Sure, sure." Miles chuckled – he loved goading Simon. "But your work's done here, ain't it?" The shorter man poked his friend's chest, Simon swatted his hand away, still trying to be something resembling angry.

"You wan-na date her, you wan-na kiss her, you wan-na lurve her!" the little man teased. The pair broke into laughter and the conversation degenerated into a girly play fight. The theatre's side door opened.

Simon Donovan froze with his best friend in a headlock at the sight of a woman. Her beauty hit him hard: he felt like that Milky Way might just make a swift evacuation of his tensed stomach. She cocked her head slightly to the right as her amusement broke a smile over her face that took his breath away.

"Hi." Despite nerves, her voice was confident. Simon was silent for a few seconds. Miles shrugged off Simon's weakened arms, smoothed his suit over with the flick of a tanned hand and jumped in to save his flailing buddy.

"Detective Ferdinand Miles, y'all must be Ms Cregg?" He dipped his head and held out his hand.

"Yes, yes I am." She held out a hand, which he took and kissed lightly. Slightly bemused by the scene in front of her, CJ blushed at the way Simon rocked on his heels, his steel blue eyes boring holes in his friend's head. Miles grinned wildly at Simon.

"So you letting this ruffian take you out some place nice then, ma'am?" CJ blushed. For the first time in a while, she was momentarily lost for words.

"You know, I…" She breathed a deep breath: "Yes, I am." She avoided Simon's eyes, but she caught the smile that exploded uncontrollably across his face.

"Well then." The detective's black eyes danced with fire as he whipped out a business card and started scribbling on the reverse. "Then I shall provide you with the finest of venues." He finished and handed the card to Simon. With sincerity that was perhaps surprising for the conversation, Miles spoke quietly to Simon as he placed the card in his hand. "Brother, ask for Francis and hand the card only to him." The men stood locked in a gaze, only for a matter of seconds, but CJ was astounded at the bond between them. She almost felt jealous of Ferdinand, and then she immediately scolded herself with the stupidity of the thought.

"Ms Cregg, it was an honour meeting you." He again held his hand out to her. "Take care of him. Really do – I know him like a brother – and he's no where near as tough as he looks." Simon studied the floor, and his face flushed a deep crimson: how would CJ take that, it was their first date and there was not a sniff of humour in his friend's remark. He felt like the world might just end before their lives had had a chance to begin.

Content that he'd caused a sufficient impact on their night, Ferdinand Miles let his pointed Italian boots lead him away from the bombshell of teenage awkwardness with a flash of teeth and swish of his coat.

They stood on the side-walk in silence. Simon was dumbfounded at the words of his friend. He was reminded every time he met with Ferdinand, how he could be read like an open book in super sized print. Was the fact that he wanted CJ Cregg so completely totally obvious to the world? Did she know it? Moreover, would she want that? Suddenly words erupted from his mouth:

"We've known each other a long time, and he says crazy things to, uh – ladies I'm trying to date, you should – uh, ignore him – I think." How did that come out so bad? 'Ladies I'm trying to date': how? CJ smiled, raising her eyebrows.

"So now you're trying to date me, Agent Donovan?" She seemed to find goading Simon just as much fun as his friend did, and as for flipping seriousness on its ass with humour: that was her speciality. Simon didn't think he could blush any deeper, but his face seemed to feel hotter. How was this happening to him? Where did the cool service smile go? All he wanted was a drink with her; it was really that simple, surely? No – of course not, that's why she's different, that's why you like her, idiot. She's different.

"Yes." He growled, his tone betraying the concoction of feelings inside him. He held his hands out to her, he laid himself open to her: "Yes, I really am." She smiled; her knees went weak as she placed her soft hands in his great warm paws.

"Where are you taking me then?"

"The Blue Lagoon."

They set off, walking slowly arm in arm down the street; their silence was anticipation. Their silence was plain disbelief that this was finally happening to them.

TBC-


	2. Blue Lagoon

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1.

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Chapter II: The Blue Lagoon

The barman gazed over his domain; the small room was quietly humming away as per normal, although he swore to himself that he felt that familiar warmth in the buzz. Around thirty elegant couples beautifully dressed in expensive dresses and sharp suits sat in the small pools of soft golden light that highlighted the sofas lining the perimeter; colourful drinks presented on the low tables in front of them. The dance floor was set a small step down from the rest of the room. It was still relatively empty; the polished wood happily caught the blue and white lights, reflecting the soft movements of the band like a pine-tinted lake. Despite the post show rush, the "Blue Lagoon" always managed to keep its air of serenity. The modern chrome banister that ran down the grand stairs in the far corner of the room glowed blue from the soft lighting that washed lightly over the pianist and his small band on their stage. The air was smoke free, clean and cool. It really was a haven he liked to believe, and exactly how a fashionable, exclusive bar should be.

Jimmy and the boys let the melodies flow; they brought the essence of beauty out of wood and brass, strings and the very breath of life. Their music thickened the thin air; their loving expression of the melancholy blues melted the heart of the people, and their upbeat swing stirred happiness in every soul.

The buzz had picked up, it had hit 11pm, by that time, the awkwardness has gone away and the conversation flows easily. Grant was good at sensing it – young love: he loved that sound. So often was the way after a big play night, the big first date, and the favour from the guy who knows a guy to get you a piece of this manufactured New York paradise.

Looking up as he pummelled fresh mint for a Mojito, blue light catching in the silver hair of a tall man in a tuxedo caught his eye. In his quick assessment of him, the barman decided that he must have been in his late forties at least, his handsome features and easy expression justifying in Grant's mind the presence of the beautiful woman on his arm. She was the epitome of city class, she looked confident and vital: in none less than a black Vera Wang, which she modelled so gracefully. The couple laughed freely, their eyes only for one another as they floated down the grand staircase. Grant loved that his job let him live the high life, even from a distance for the hours of the New York night. This couple looked so good on one another, they looked the way Grant would look when he found the one; they gave the air of owning the world.

Blindly continuing the preparation of the cocktail, the barman watched the man sit his date down in one of the only spots left open; at the back, in the corner under the grand stairs. It dawned on him that she might look familiar to him; but sat in the half shadow of the staircase lighting, he couldn't put his finger on it. The lightest touches between them fed the electric atmosphere, their radiant smiles lit up the room. Standing behind the bar, he decided that tonight, he would be a witness to something special.

"Now you're a free lady, what can I get you to drink? They do some fancy cocktails, or…" She cut in:

"Or you could surprise me." Oh my God, he thought – his breath caught in his chest. The worst thing a date can ask for is a surprise. It's a test. Simon felt quite sick, it was as if all the times he had denied fear a place in his body as he looked death plain straight in the face had all come to him now. He was bewildered and utterly terrified of disappointing her, lost for an immediate response. The change in beat from the band lifted him out of his fearful rut.

"Yeah, OK, a surprise it is then!" The unease written in his furrowed brow didn't filter into his voice; the duty tone took over instead and he even managed a strangled smile. CJ sat back, missing his discomfort as she reeled in his presence, her thumping heart slowed and comforted by the very same beat of the blues.

The silver haired fellow wondered up to the bar, his date sat with her eyes flicking between the musicians and her man. Grant floated gracefully down the bar, tilting his head slightly as he asked what he could get sir. The man took a deep breath.

"What's good?" he blurted out. The barman knew immediately what had happened. Usually the cocktail list would have been the object of conversation between couples for a good fifteen minutes, or a bottle of bubbly would be requested straight off. She'd asked him to surprise her.

"If you will excuse my impertinence sir, is the lady a plain but classy Champagne lady, or does she like something a little more exciting?"

"She's a very exciting lady!" Donovan you sound like an utter fool. The barman smiled and produced a list of cocktails.

"There are plenty of cocktails that include our finest bubbly." Simon was sold.

The barman put on a show as he quickly, but carefully prepared the drinks, yet the ever-vigilant eyes of the Secret Service agent kept snapping over to the other side of the room. He got a hold of himself and turned toward the bar, concentrating on the peaches whizzing round in the blender. Somehow he just felt if he turned and saw her looking at him, he might collapse in a dizzy heap without paying the tab. The rich, deep pink-orange cocktails sat beautifully in champagne flutes garnished with a peach ball split on the rim of each glass. Reflecting on the beauty of the Bellinis as he handed the barman a crisp bill, he wondered if CJ liked peaches; his gut twisted and he looked to the heavens in silent prayer.

Walking back to their little private sofa was one of the longest walks he'd ever taken. Her eyes caught him as he was half way there, and neither her eyes nor beaming smile moved an inch.

"Wow, Simon, what are these?" The ecstasy in her voice was very apparent, even if she didn't like peaches, that sound was worth his efforts.

"These are Bellinis, Ms Cregg, invented in Venice, the original Bellinis come from Harry's bar." Simon was thanking the barman for that little touch of history. CJ cooed with interest, turning in the sofa, encouraging him to take his seat next to her. She loved the drink, and wondered how she had missed it all these years, the relief that washed over Simon's face when she approved touched him deeply.

Placing her glass back on the table with his, she tentatively and softly laid her hand over his on his knee. Her touch was warm, and he caught the fire in her eyes as she spoke.

"Thank you for my surprise Simon."

"And you said I was no fun!"

"Oh come on, you weren't big on fun!"

"No, no – you're not pinning this on me, I just wasn't allowed to be fun!"

"So you'll be fun from now on then, Agent Sunshine?"

"I'm a really Special Agent, Ms Cregg, I think I can manage fun."

He squeezed her hand and cradled it in his two. "I think I can do that for you."

CJ was stunned by the sincerity of his words, how could a man be so right? Usually it would be some cheap line, but this flirtation ran deeper than the surface. She leaned into his shoulder and nuzzled her face against his cheek. Simon inhaled deeply; her perfume was as intoxicating to him as their first encounter in her office. He shuddered involuntarily as her free hand came to rest on his tense neck, and her thumb caressed his ear lobe. Soft movement of lips against lips and tongues exploring, took them out of the bar to somewhere far, far away. The sweet melody of the band carried them deep inside themselves. It was as tender as the pianist's fingers gliding over the smooth ivory; it was as passionate as the trumpet player who shut his eyes and keeps nothing back as he puts his whole heart into the song. CJ wondered why other men had not been as gentle, why other men had not known how to express passion without lust. It was so new, so much, and so wonderful: she felt like putty in his hands.

Her friends would never believe that she would be this easily won over, they mostly accepted that she was too fiercely independent and career driven to lay herself open to anyone. Milo, the most perceptive of her friends had once told her that one day love would come up and smack her in the face and there would be nothing even she could do about it, and not to give up hope. She had laughed it off, it didn't bother her, she was fine alone, look at her: she was good by herself. Milo had just looked at her and pouted his biggest campiest pout, swatting the air with a limp hand and exclaiming "What-ever darling, but you know, and I'm gonna say I told you so, you're not immune, you're just chicken." He was right. The past held memories of deep-seated hurt that only now served to nurture her instinct to bolt: to run away and pass over even good things in the name of self-preservation.

CJ was determined not to be chicken now. She truly let herself go in his arms; she let herself feel every movement. Every step of their tongues' dance was elegantly placed, they waltzed to the blues; they lost themselves completely, only yielding to stop when the soft applause for the musicians brought them back to reality.

The woman he wanted so badly sat in his arms, smiling bashfully with unbounded joy in her eyes. There was nothing more in the world he could have possibly wanted, it was as if his life had been fulfilled, he felt new. For so many years there had been nothing, only aching and regret, only meaningless episodes of carnal instinct: pitiful attempts at finding something this right. Simon felt something that he had never even thought possible, and his smile: it was not his Aimee smile. This was a whole new thing. This, for sure, was his CJ smile.

TBC-


	3. Rhythm & Harmony

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, **this part is rated R** so please, if you are not comfortable reading that, stop reading and move onto the next chapter now. Thanks, Zk.

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Chapter III – Rhythm & Harmony

The dance floor was alive with the slow swaying of bodies pressed together, moving smartly on the river of melody and harmony; the tall couple danced in the flow, the sound of the blues stripping their souls down before one another; they spoke through their eyes. A dance was something Simon rarely enjoyed. He had never been so affected by the touch of his partner: he had never felt the music strike so deep inside. Their conversation, back on their sofa was quiet and intimate; they were free-falling into each other's world.

Simon told her of Ferdinand Miles: how they met at West Point, how they served together in the Army as Rangers, left together for Chicago and now how the Miles' were his only family. The short tales of their lives together endeared Ferdinand to her; immediately it was clear how the men were so close. They had fought side by side for almost ten years; until Simon had joined the Secret Service, the two hadn't been apart in work or play for over twenty years. It was also apparent that Simon didn't let many people in. CJ let her guard down, and spoke about her parents and family: about how scared she was that her Dad was dying. The revelation was shocking for Simon – he felt humbled and chocked at the same time, it was a mark of her trust, and possibly the first time, he thought that she'd spoken to someone about it. Even though his job had been to be her protector, he thought by her resistance that it would never extend to her inner core; her real concerns about her life. Being strong was what his mother had taught him, bringing him up alone. When he held her hands, she felt that strength and the need to shed a tear left her; he was her comfort, and with that, she felt love.

Three rounds of cocktails, a dance, and much talking left them ready to leave come 1am, even though life at the Blue Lagoon ran on far into the morning. The night was cool, the air was different, and it smelled of the big city. As they walked, Simon hugged her shoulder and she clung to his waist.

As they neared the hotel, Simon steered them over the street to the small park. At the centre of the open ground, there was a beautifully lit fountain; he guided her there and they stood marvelling at it, the Press Secretary with her Special Agent wrapped around her back.

"It's beautiful Simon."

"I know." He squeezed her tighter, their fingers intertwined over her chest. They relished in seeing the beauty of their feelings reflected in the flowing water, life felt like the light bursting up through the splashes from the submerged lamps.

"It's picture perfect, I never thought it was possible to find somewhere this quiet in New York." CJ commented.

"Speaking of which…" Simon rummaged in his pocket and pulled out his camera phone. "I want to show Anthony this!" CJ chuckled to herself; Simon's dedication to the boy was so admirable. He took a picture, not unwrapping himself from her. In a moment of inspiration, he flipped the phone in his hand and snapped a candid shot of the both of them, smiling against the fuzzy light of the street behind. CJ had her cheek nuzzled against him; she looked content, leaning back into his embrace as his smiling lips grazed her skin. Perhaps a few hours back she may have been bothered about where that picture might end up, but now? Now she just relished the attention.

"Shall we head in, you look cold?" He enquired, despite having cocooned her in his warmth.

"I'm not cold, but we could anyway." Simon chuckled to himself, of course she wasn't cold, the goose flesh on her arms was just for decoration. It was amazing how stubbornly independent she could be.

"It's ok if you're cold, you know – you are only wearing a…" She cut in:

"I'm not cold, Mister Agent over-protective!" CJ freed herself of his arms in mock protest, her thin coat flapping in the breeze. "And my dress, my very expensive dress is very warm thank you!"

"Easy there, Ms Cregg – I'm not trying to be overprotective!"

"So, Agent Sunshine, you admit that you're just no fun then?" Her tone was sly, her grin deviously enticing.

"If you call being cold fun then yeah…" He grinned like a fox, rising to the tease: "getting warm on the other hand… now that's what I call real fun!"

The hotel was warm and cosy. The red carpets were thick on the floor of the corridors, they emitted warmth into the space, but they could have been anywhere and felt the same luxury. It was the luxury of touch; of walking next to someone who ignites something inside you that you never knew was even there.

CJ's room was an adjoining double; an internal door connected the two. It should have been the base for her Secret Service protection. The agents' personal rooms were on the next floor up. Their slow march came to a stop outside her door. She leant against the wall, suddenly feeling the alcohol having its effect on her empty stomach. She looked sheepishly at her former bodyguard. Suddenly they were nervous again, knowing full well what lay behind the closed door. He shifted on his feet, but the words were said through the hugest grin:

"I had a really great night tonight."

"Me too, I'm glad you knew a bar!"

"Yeah, Miles took me there a couple of times." The butterflies were back: he needed another Milky Way; it was like taking your date home after the high school prom. Not knowing what to say, or how far to try and take things. He had also just killed the conversation. In the second that it took him to resign and look at the floor, CJ softly took his lapels in her hands and pulled him to her. Bracing himself on the wall with one arm, he let his lips be brought gently to hers. There it was again, the most delicate of caresses, the same passion-filled softness.

They didn't hear the footsteps or the voices of her colleagues as the group rounded the corner from the lift. Toby stopped in his tracks, Sam, Donna and Josh followed suit. Toby suddenly found anything but that in front of him very interesting, Donna grinned wildly and covered her mouth in a "puppy-dog cute" moment. The two younger men looked at one another knowingly before Josh let out a loud whistle and the pair began clapping.

Simon broke the kiss softly but quickly at the sound of the whistling. He hadn't even known they were there. That was why it could have never happened while he was protecting her; this woman completely consumed his senses. They both blushed deeply, looking at the other adults ten feet from them. Before Simon had a chance to stiffen up and step away in a most professional manner – CJ had buried her blushing face in his chest. She wasn't shying away from him in the presence of her friends and colleagues. It took a few long seconds for it to sink in: she was more than content being seen with him. Simon marvelled at that revelation and simultaneously wondered how could he feel so happy about being totally caught off guard.

Agent Donovan wrapped his strong arms round the Press Secretary at his chest, smiling uncontrollably. The group advanced towards them, heading for Josh's room.

"Hey I have problems with those key cards too!" Josh winked as he was ushered by the others into his room. CJ shot him a half-hearted evil scowl that quickly liquidated into a small fit of throaty laughter. Feeling her laugh into his chest, Simon felt her voice go straight to his heart. He was still stunned; it was a shock feeling this insanely vulnerable. He thought he had felt something like this before, he had labelled it love, but now? Now it seemed a crime to call that skin-deep folly love. This was it, and it was more real than anything.

Getting over her laughter, CJ realised that she didn't want him to leave her alone now. She was dizzy with something crazy: it wasn't that familiar fuzz that alcohol gave. She unlocked the door and took a step in before turning to Simon, her eyes asked the question she dared not utter and beckoned him in. He read it well, but fear hit him in the chest like a steam train and he stopped in her doorway.

"Are you sure you want to…?" Simon trailed off. He wanted more than anything to spend the night with CJ, to make love to her – hell, it didn't matter if that happened, as long as he didn't part with her tonight.

"Only if you want… I just thought maybe…" Her voice shook slightly with unease. Suddenly she panicked, what if he didn't want to stay, after all it was only their first date. 'Oh God, I must be coming across so strong!' – the thoughts ran thick and fast through her head and her stomach went into free fall and she couldn't look at his eyes. Simon blushed when she began fidgeting, tucking her hair behind her ear. He'd never asked a woman whether she wanted him to stay, usually he'd have just gone ahead without abandon; it had never seemed like it would be worth the wait. He inhaled deeply but softly, drawing her attention back to his eyes, realising the rejection he had unintentionally just dealt out.

"Oh CJ. Of course I do, I mean I really do." There was nothing but sincerity in his face as he continued, his voice only just audible: "I just thought maybe, if you thought it was too soon… well, I'd be happy to wait…" Simon studied her face, anxious for a response.

'He'd be happy to wait?' – she ran the words over in her head one at a time: He'd be happy to wait! Almost as suddenly as her fear had stiffened her body, she was immediately able to breathe. She took his hands in hers and looking into his eyes confessed sweetly:

"Simon, not one single man has ever told me that."

"Then not one single man has felt this way about you CJ: I'd wait all my life for this chance with you." He had not wasted a beat in giving his reply; her face changed. He had said too much and he knew it. In the small amount of time he'd spent watching this divine creature, he learned that she was that kind of person who was turned away by words like that. Promising to wait was a contract for the future, and an encroachment on her fiercely independent life. Even though he was sure she felt the same, he hung his head before raising his eyes back to meet hers. She looked at him; his words were soft and resigned.

"I… I just want to do this right…"

Her lips silenced his botched attempt at trying to take back his beautiful words: she was not being chicken tonight. Her hands on his lapels pulled him gently into the room. The door shut silently behind them.

As they drifted further into the room, refusing to break their kiss, almost afraid to let go. The agent's jacket fell to the floor. As CJ embraced his shirt-clad torso, her hands met the leather of his gun holster: it was a reminder of his job, of how they had become so close. She ran her hands around the holster, up to his shoulders. As her fingers slipped under the straps, he drew his lips away from hers. Simon looked down then back to her face. He gave her the slightest of nods and closed his eyes as she gently slipped the leather from him. It was as if she lifted the yoke of the service – the yoke that bound his life to the whimsical cycle of hate, justice and revenge. The magnum felt heavy in her hands as she brought the gun between them. She drew one of Simon's hands to it and wrapped his fingers around it; CJ saw his chest fill out with a deep breath. Their foreheads came to rest together and Simon sighed with relief as he realised that for the first time in years, he didn't feel naked without it. Carefully, he lowered it to the floor by their feet.

Their clothing was shed with ease. The bed sheets pulled back with care, warm skin against cool cotton was savoured. As their passion intensified, Simon was suddenly standing on the brink of the most beautiful thing he could imagine: his conscience interrupted:

"I should get a…" he looked down at himself, then back up at her, he looked bashful; he looked terrified that he'd just spoilt the moment, or worse put doubt into her mind about it. Looking into his eyes, she just shook her head and caressed his face. CJ was safely on the pill, and perhaps selfishly, she decided that she wanted to experience all of him. Simon felt a lump in his throat, realising how fully she was giving herself to him as she brought him back to her, as she brought him into her.

He pressed into her gently. In response, a sharp gasp escaped her lips and her body stiffened; her eyes squeezed shut as she fought the urge to tense. Simon felt her telling him it had been a long time.

"Oh God, Simon." She breathed.

"Are you okay? CJ, am I hurting you?" His tone was tender; his voice was not much more than a soft whisper. His fingers ran over her face gently.

"No, oh God. It's been a while and – oh – you're so… uh…" a groan of pain mixed with pleasure swallowed the words as she pulled him in a little more, "You make me feel, oh God, Simon – so alive."

If only she knew how dead he had been for so long, how the sound of gunfire didn't faze him and regard for his own life had ceased to matter. But most of all: how he spent his adult life dreaming of feeling this way and how grateful he was to her for making it real.

She stretched to accommodate him; she felt every inch of him slowly become a part of her; he reached in closer to her heart than any other man, yet it was more than just erotic. Wrapped in hot velvet, Simon thought he might lose it, the sheet bunched in his fists, her hands gripped his muscular shoulders as he fit himself to her. He kissed her lightly on the forehead and paused.

"CJ?" She opened her eyes and stared into the pools of raw blue emotion above her.

"Yes." It was a simple reply, but oh how it meant so much. He kissed her and she wrapped her long, slender legs around his taught body, gently starting to rock their forms into a slow and sensual rhythm.

There was no rush, there was passion but lust was left at the door. CJ whimpered into his lips and into his shoulder, Simon's breathing was ragged; words formed on his lips, telling her he wanted his body to caress her very soul. She melted into his being; she had found the one person for whom there was no antidote. It might have scared her if it were not for his soft touch and his loving presence deep inside of her; somehow for that time, she was fearless and utterly at peace.

He worked their bodies hard; they were both fit for their age, his intensely controlled strokes moved them slowly but firmly and it drove them to the most excruciatingly fantastic end. Every part of her clung desperately to him as she whimpered his name: at the sound of her voice, he knew it was not a dream and hot tears escaped his eyes.

Simon rolled them over, so that CJ's spent body covered his own. The feeling of her skin pressing against his as they lay, still intertwined, made bathing in the most glorious afterglow so perfectly real. CJ looked down on his face and tenderly wiped the tears from his cheeks as he smiled, gazing at her in awe. She softly mocked him and he loved her for it. They shifted and as he held her draped over his side, nothing could harm them. The barman had got it right, they felt like they owned the world; nothing else mattered. Simon closed his eyes to relish in her warmth, silently thanking the heavens for this blessing.

The gentle feeling of her lips on his unshaven chin brought him back to the beautiful reality they had created. He opened his eyes and they shared a soul-connecting gaze before he met her mouth with a series of lazy kisses.

"Thank you." He whispered.

"That was fun." Simon squeezed her close and kissed her nose as they shared the comment with giggles. As they relaxed, he looked at her face resting on his shoulder; he cupped her cheek in his big hand and ran his thumb down her nose, pressing it gently on the end. CJ smiled, amused, but before she could ask, he explained in a deep tone she hadn't heard before:

"Mom used to do that every night, she said once that my nose reminded her of Dad." He rolled his head away to stare at the ceiling, sighing: "I don't know why I just did that." CJ felt oddly touched that he'd shared that with her. She ran a hand over his chest and with a soft finger brought his face back to hers. She smiled and secured a place in his heart by returning the gesture and sealing it with a tender kiss.

CJ slept with her head on her Sunshine's chest, one hand under his over his thumping heart. He held her silky form to his, sleeping easy for the first time in years.

-TBC- 


	4. 4 AM

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of '_Ephar_' is mine and purely fictional, and is not based on any real country or political situation at all.

* * *

Chapter IV – 4AM

It was 4AM when Special Agent Ron Butterfield beheld them from the adjoining room door. It had been carelessly left open. The beauty of the scene quashed any shock of the revelation; a dimmed corner light splashed a warm glow over their bodies, contrasted against the white of the bedclothes that covered them up to their waists. He took a step back and knocked as he half closed the door behind him. Simon stirred from his light, but peaceful sleep. He caught a glimpse of a familiarly tall figure in a suit. Peeling CJ from him delicately and covering her lovingly with the warm sheets, he dressed quickly and went into the next room to face his superior.

The men faced one another in the dim glow of a standard lamp. The shadows on their faces exaggerated features, yet Ron's expression was as plain as ever, Simon's however betrayed his worried thoughts.

"Donovan." The greeting was by the book, if this was going to be an interrogation, Simon wasn't going quietly:

"If it's about us, then you can go to hell," he hissed motioning to the bed in the next room. Simon felt his face reddening, it was unlike him to show this, and Ron wished he could back off, he wished he could keep his words to himself.

"Agent Donovan, please: I didn't come here at 4am to question your integrity. What goes on between you and Ms. Cregg is quite frankly not my concern."

"Sorry sir." He allowed himself a sigh, but didn't relax "What is it?"

"It's Ephar." Simon's face changed swiftly from relief to despair, back to rage.

"What if my man hadn't been caught last night?"

"Then you'd have no problem going!" Ron motioned towards the next room. Simon held his eyes in a glare; Ron had uncharacteristically lost his cool.

"No one saw this coming?" Simon was in denial, the words formed at his mouth, spurred on only by his feelings of disbelief. "How did you neglect to tell me, there must have been intelligence, why am I on the outside?"

"Your mind wouldn't have been in the game Agent!" The ranking agent's eyes bored into Simon's. "You and I both know full well that it's not just an assignment, that information would have endangered Ms. Cregg and I couldn't risk that." Ron was firm; that had been his decision, by the book.

"Yes sir." Agent Sunshine sighed, the warmth of rage left him: the cold of remorse set in. "You know," a sardonic smile stretched his lips out, "I had truly lost sight of what it was to have anyone to leave behind."

Feelings weren't in the supervisor's job description, but half his professional career with the man, the change in Simon Donovan was striking. Never before had he questioned a superior, let alone an order; never before had he spoken so frankly.

"You can't let her be an issue here." Ron was gentle, his voice uncharacteristically soft: the professional relationship was briefly laid down.

"I can't just forfeit my life now!"

"Simon, you knew this would come sooner or later! There are things that are forfeit, that you know for now, have to end here." their conversation was but a hushed whisper, flux in the air.

"Don't ask me, not now!" Simon turned bitterly away. At that, the superior agent resurfaced and pulled rank:

"I'm not asking you – I'm telling you it's now. Your card has come up soldier!"

'Soldier', it rang in his ears, the gunfire and the jungle flashed across his mind's eye, deep brown eyes bulged from a child's face of pure innocence. The Rangers' creed ran through his mind…

_…Fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavour to uphold the prestige, honour, and high esprit de corps of my Ranger Regiment. Never shall I fail my comrades. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall…I will complete the mission though I am the lone survivor…_

The word soldier made something snap in his mind, the Ranger came back in an instant. Never leave a man. Facing his commanding officer, the deadpan soldier stood to attention. Ron lost all heightened strain that had seeped into his voice; his tone was simple and regimented:

"You'll leave immediately, it's a commercial flight; military movements are so closely watched it would be hard to get you in short of dropping you in a flyover. The plane leaves at 0600; an agent has your kit. He's waiting in the car with your passport and ticket.

"How long?"

"Twelve to eighteen: ghost." Ghost – no contact, he was on his own. Commissioned by the US, but truly alone, if everything went wrong, there would be no recovery operation, there would be no military funeral, and there would be the quiet distribution of his estate, but beyond that, no recognition what so ever of his existence. Even the Ranger in him couldn't stop the swell of emotion: he swallowed hard. The two men stood in silence. Simon remembered the boy who had saved his life in Ephar over twenty years ago. There was not one day he did not look to the sky and thank Jeremiah for his life. There was not one day he did not look to the sky and ask God when his time would come; when he would pay his debt. Ron's voice snapped him back to the present:

"Simon Donovan, I will certify by the authority vested in me by the Treasury Department that you are sound of mind. I am obligated to ask you if there are changes to your final testament as I have it in my possession?" He moved to get a piece of paper from his jacket. The shorter man held his hand up: Ron stopped, returning his hands to his side.

"You split everything between Anthony and Miles. You make sure Miles takes Anthony on, he agreed to be his Big Brother."

"Is that all?"

"Yes sir." Simon captured the eyes of his superior. "And Ron, when I don't come back, you tell her everything. Tell CJ why I left."

"You know I can't do that."

"I can expect you to do what ever the hell I like – a man sentenced to death has that prerogative!"

"You have a debt Donovan, but he didn't make the ultimate sacrifice."

"He was ten years old."

"You have to leave. Now."

"I left my side arm."

"Where?"

"In the other room."

"Simon no! Get your head in the game – you know what it did to you last time and you know it made no diff–" Simon cut in with hideous venom in his voice:

"Screw you Ron, she's not Aimee!"

Butterfield knew he'd pushed Simon to the limit. He was running a tight course; he had to let him do it. From what he heard of CJ Cregg, he couldn't be sure Simon was right: right if she wasn't like Aimee Donovan had been, or if it were possible for anyone to believe in love when they were so alone. The knock on effects to the President's senior staff, thoughts ran through his head, but Ron knew it had to end, for both their sakes. It was tragic even to his eyes; he never thought he'd see Simon Donovan this way again, the way he'd been when he had quit the Army Rangers. Ron had been promoted and had wanted to take his most promising soldier along with him, but the bombshell of Ephar and Aimee had changed that. The look in his eyes was different somehow, he knew Simon Donovan and what he saw between them was real. Worst of all, he knew that this time, it was by Simon's own actions that his heart would be broken again.

Fully clothed, Simon stole back into the room. His holster and weapon were where he had left them, in the middle of the cream carpet. He knelt and gingerly picked the item up, his fingers remembering the sensation of her skin; the way she had freed him of his burden. The agent rose slowly, and removing his jacket, placed his iron yoke of service back upon his shoulders.

CJ stirred and woke, her eyes finding the empty space next to her, she turned over and her eyes fell upon the suited figure.

"Hi." His voice was weak. She took in the sight of him fully dressed, his face was sad.

"Are you… going?" The shakes in her voice reverberated through him.

"Yes." It was that simple, it had to be – for no words would express how it was the hardest thing in the world.

"Can I… uh, can I… see you sometime? The weekend maybe we could…" She searched his face and he spoke in an expressionless tone, yet his eyes played his pain like cracks over their glassy surface.

"No. It's over Ms Cregg." She sat up, the sheet fell away from her body, but she was unaware of it.

"Ms Cregg? Simon? – What's this about?"

"I have to go."

"I… I don't understand, did someone… say something?" She shrugged as she fought the tears back.

"I just have to go."

"Where?" She smiled; it was the only expression that might hold back the tears. On the verge of breaking down, she laughed at her stupid, desperate question. Dealing with being used seemed to be a speciality of her love life. He was another in a line – how gullible must she be? The thoughts made her feel angry to the point of nausea. Simon took the few steps back over to her; he stood over her as she sat on the edge of the bed.

"CJ, I…" he tried to touch her face, she backed away as far as she could and cut him off:

"No, just go, Simon, please." She was disgusted at him and at herself. He looked down and saw the hurt in her eyes. As he turned to leave, the first of her warm tears rolled from her eyes; impulsively he snapped back round, pulling her to her feet and into a firm embrace and desperate kiss. She fought him vigorously, and pushed him away, growling against his lips:

"You're all the same!" She stood fiercely in front of him, uncaring that she was naked and emotionally broken. "You're all just about getting yourselves damned well laid!" Her rage flowed freely, her arms flayed in expression: "Am I that easy?" He stood there, unable to speak. "Am I that easy!" She shouted again before her shoulders slumped and she shook her head: "None of you care a damn whisper!"

"It was never just sex to me." Finally finding the words, his voice was empty and seemingly uncaring, devoid from emotion as his heart bled numbly in his chest. To her, it was as if he wasn't even trying, it was almost sarcastic to her ears. For that, she slapped him hard across his left cheek; the tears intensified as she shrank away from her act of violence, sitting pathetically on the edge of the bed they had shared, despondently wrapping her naked body in the ruffled sheets. His head stayed tilted to the side, but he hadn't even flinched; the pain from her palm didn't hurt, he wanted her to keep hitting him. Maybe it would numb him from the pain in her eyes that crushed him so completely inside. When she didn't hit him again, he fled with firm strides, ashamedly starring at the floor as he went.

The door closed quietly, she never heard it. The sobs were so deep that they shook her whole body. Her mind hadn't caught up with her heart, and she almost felt at a loss as to why she was crying. Then the nausea returned. That sick taste in her mouth as she realised she'd been used. They had duped her. Simon Donovan and his good for nothing friend: 'take care of him, he's so weak' – everything he said she subconsciously spun into a lie in her head. Never in all her life had she felt so alone. Milo had been right she mused; love did come along and slap her in the face, and by God did it hurt.

TBC-


	5. Crack of Dawn

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all. The character of _'Jeremiah ben-Kurah_' is my creation.

* * *

Chapter V – The Crack of Dawn

The poor youngster assigned to escort Simon Donovan to the airport must have thought the gods were against him. Never had he seen a man look so bitter. The older agent was silent for the whole duration of the journey. At the airport, they walked without uttering a word until something caught Simon's eye.

"I'm taking personal time. Wait here."

"Sir, I was ordered to take you straight to…"

"Screw your orders, wait here." The words were spat in a low growl and the youngster did as he was sternly told.

Simon walked into the instant photo store. He was out of his kid supervisor's view. A rather friendly lady in her fifties who ran the little the store insisted upon helping him print the photos from his phone. Simon gave her a half genuine smile; she made him forget for a split second the hurt he had just caused.

Simon printed two pictures. One photo of the fountain for Anthony and the other, a token of the only thing in his life he couldn't bear to lose sight of: CJ smiled beautifully out of the glossy paper. She beamed radiantly as Simon kissed her cheek; they looked happy, a picture of love. He hated himself when he looked at it, he hated his job, he hated that he was bound by his word to another soul that wasn't hers. Resentment filled him and flipped his stomach. Soon he was vomiting in the restrooms. Wanting to hit the pale, pathetic looking man that stood before him in the mirror was something he hadn't felt in years. Staring at himself, he took the roll of surgical tape he had just purchased and stripped his shirt off. The photo was folded into four and he taped it firmly to the dip in his chest just under his heart, knowing that if Ron saw a personal photo, it would be quickly confiscated and locked in his deposit box along with everything that identified him as Simon Donovan.

On the reverse of the fountain, he wrote something for the boy he knew would hate him for leaving. He left a phone number for Ferdinand Miles.

Simon exited the restrooms pale and he returned to his minder. They went to the gate. Butterfield was waiting. Special Agent Donovan emptied his pockets of his personal possessions. He handed the folded photo for Anthony. Ron knew the duty he was obligated to. Without a word, a new passport and wallet were handed over. As the dawn cracked open a neon canister of bright blue morning sky, Eric Orson boarded the 0600 to Ephar alone.

The hot water beating down on her shoulders mingled with her tears. The stream was endless, yet there was no desire on her part to pull herself together. She scrubbed her body hard, trying to remove the scent of him from her skin, to get rid of the sensual memory of his touch. She scrubbed and she scrubbed, her body felt more worn yet less than free from Simon Donovan. At some point after resigning herself to sitting in a crumpled heap in the bath as the water splashed over her, the travel alarms telling her to get it together started to sound in the next room. The Press Secretary kicked in, and she shut the water off firmly.

Gossip spread quickly through the Senior Staff, in their morning briefing on Air Force One, everyone's eyes were on her. Toby expected to see her flying high, he thought he'd get that knowing look followed by flushed cheeks and an irrepressible smile. That's what he'd seen before, he had no reason not to expect it, and Simon Donovan was a good man, someone who he'd be contently jealous of. However, he was confronted with glassy eyes, and her blank detached game face concealing something resembling a weakness he'd never witnessed before.

In the meeting, Josh had made a not-so-subtle remark about the night's activities; CJ had shot him down with a look that silenced the room, an icy chill surpassing the sombre mood of the older men. Josh and Sam were confused at the reaction, frowning to one another in puzzlement; they had seen their friend happier than ever only a few hours before hand, and they knew that when she was as buoyant as she had been, she was near impossible to sink.

CJ was the first out of the room, the men stared after her; all worried and confused. Toby rocked back on his heels, took a deep breath and exited with only one goal in mind. He caught up with his friend and pulled her aside into a small galley. He didn't bother speaking; his unrelenting gaze was enough to break the fragile exterior she had pulled together.

"I don't know, Toby." Her voice was almost a whisper, her head fell into her hands and she took a sharp breath.

"Don't know what CJ? What happened?" She sniffed back a tear and smiled that catatonic smile and Toby knew. "CJ?"

"We made… no, we…" she wanted to say they made love and couldn't, but neither could she admit it was just sex. "But he left this morning."

"He left you?" She nodded, biting back the tears that were brimming in her eyes. "Did he say anything?"

"He said he had to go." She snorted, mocking herself and the situation.

"That's it?" Toby's anger was swelling inside of him; if he ever laid hands on that Simon Donovan… when she said nothing more, that feeling ebbed away, grief for his friend filled his chest. "CJ, I'm sorry." She smiled a tight smile as the tears escaped; she tapped her foot, her arms crossed over her chest squeezed tight. Toby collected her into his arms, and she cried hard against his shoulder. He just smoothed her hair and let her cry. He could have sworn CJ hadn't cried publicly over a man before. Even over the gradual loss of her Father, she held it together. Why a one-night stand with her ex Secret Service Agent had shaken her so badly, he didn't even want to guess. The tears lost their intensity and her grip loosened.

"CJ… are you ok?" She sniffed and released him. She nodded weakly. "I mean… CJ, are you ok, physically?" Her eyes widened, her mind quickly chewing out what Toby was asking.

"Toby, no. No, he'd never – I'm fine!"

"I've just never seen you like this, I thought…"

"I… Toby, I…" She couldn't find the words.

"I thought he'd y'know, really hurt you, CJ it's not out of the realm of possibility."

"Toby, the reason why-" she inhaled, controlling her rapidly increasing breaths, "you've never seen me like this is that I've never been like this before." It sounded stupid, but it was true. Toby nodded and they stood in silence. CJ laughed an empty, hollow laugh. "I don't know what's got into me Toby."

"Whatever it is, I'll kill him for it." His voice rose a little towards the end, CJ mused that it was nice to know that at least her best friend cared, and that not all men were utterly useless.

"Don't think you'll get there before me." The regular CJ found her voice, her strength and resolve somehow briefly returned. Toby released her, and they went about the day. The feeling of rejection and loss hung around her neck like a lead weight, it pulled her down and she dreaded the following evening when she would finally be alone in her apartment. She knew it would feel empty without an agent there. Moreover, she knew that somehow, it would be nothing short of terrifying without him there.

Ephar was over twelve hours away by plane, and Simon hated every moment of it. He was sat alone; the two seats next to him in economy had been left empty. These flights were the sorts that were only full on the way back. Food wasn't something he could face, the air hostess kindly advised that he ought to eat something, but Mr Orson politely told her his stomach wouldn't hold it. Eric Orson was a nervous flier, he worked for an oil company as an auditor, and was being sent out to check the refineries. The plastic smile warmed to the dishevelled suit sat by the window. He felt her pity and inside scolded himself. Even a stranger's false pity wasn't worthy of him now.

The view from the plane was spectacular, the colours vibrant and the world vast below. Mr Orson stared at it blankly; it was as if he were colour-blind. He didn't blink until his eyes got painfully dry. As he sat alone, the air con would send wafts of her scent washing over him and every time he felt worse and further detached from reality.

In the tiny on board bathroom, the harsh strip light highlighted his haggard unshaven face. He ought to clean up. The standard issue electric razor was heavy in his hand. Running it slowly over his cheek, he lost sight of the point to his action. No one was going to appreciate the feel of his smooth skin, no one was going to care how he looked: not now. The buzz of the little machine sharply ceased, he left himself with the shadow of a goatee. He wanted to leave it all behind, he needed to be different: he was Eric Orson.

Landing in the Ephari capital, Shuphis was something Simon remembered too vividly. His debt was still outstanding, and although he hated what had happened in New York, nothing could change him on his word. His word was final. There are very few principles one can comfort one's self with when you kill for a living. Simon lived to protect, any protection involves the very real possibility stopping a life short. Every soldier cares for a soul. Every bodyguard is fighting for someone.

It had been nearly twenty years ago. A young company of Rangers in a hostile land and as fate would have it – disaster came upon them. The fire had rained down on them as they patrolled the village they were sent to quietly protect – the genocide they were trying to secretly prevent. These people were black pagans, white colonists wanted to stamp them out. America silently stood up for the freedom of these people, in one of the most secretive wars of modern history.

The village of Duharl was becoming a refuge for the wounded. The American soldiers were kept on the fringe of the small community, according to the religious laws of that time. They were a fascination to the children, although it was strange to be welcoming white men with their rifles. The fighting had quietened down, the Rangers made friends with the kids who surrounded their feet.

Simon Donovan had made friends with a little boy whose father had died. The little boy was the head of the village. Jeremiah was ten years old. In the midst of the peace, a brutal attack threatened to take the last stronghold of the area and remove the heir to the resistance. The Rangers fought valiantly, and through bitter bloodshed and loss, the village and their kid leader remained.

The cry of pain had consumed him inside, on the battlefield, you hear death at every instant, but when they voice belongs to your best friend, there is no training that can prepare you for it. Ferdinand Miles was slumped against a tree, blood oozed through his uniform. His brown eyes were wide as he clutched his leg. Another bullet had ripped through his right biceps, lodging itself in the young soldier's jawbone. Donovan carried his friend to relative safety. He applied a battle dressing to his ailing comrade.

Only out of the corner of his eye had he caught a glimpse of the movement, the metal and his undeniable fate. It was another western bayonet. A little boy, too young to know the truth of fear, knowing in a way older than his years the reality of death, had seen it sooner. It was his blood that stained the steel. The owner of the blade lived only long enough to see the horrified look on the young soldier's face. Miles sat shaking, holding his smoking side arm. Jeremiah lived by virtue of the gods, but Simon's life would never again be the same. The honour a Ranger held in his own name, in that of his country and the custom of the people in battle bound his soul to the life of a little boy. The scar on the child's neck would be a mark of his word, his word that would be for life.

Now the full-fledged successor of his father, Jeremiah in his thirties now oversaw the capital city. He was still fighting the white men, only now it was political; the knives only came out in the shadows. A feared man, his unsightly scar made him an imposing figure, he was seen as politically just, yet personally ruthless.

Eric Orson battled his heavy duffel of belongings and equipment through the basic security, into a personnel Jeep. There had been a man waiting, dressed in the uniform of the oil company. Greeting had been nothing more than a nod and a grunt in the Ephari tongue. They were silent for the hour's journey to the outskirts of the city. The arrived at their destination; it was on a plain, backing onto one of the jungle forests that were dotted sporadically over the country. A western style fenced off ex-pat camp stood as a mark of mankind's intrusion on nature, looking menacing with it's guard towers and chain link fences upon the backdrop of a seemingly endless dust plain. The complex sat as a front over a network of tunnels that were the safe haven of the leader of the indigenous freedom fighters.

The first free elections were coming up in a year; it was a challenge, a chance for the whites to come to a true and formidable power. Jeremiah was running against them. A year from then, he and his cabinet would either require asylum in the US to take stock and try again another year, or he would be President of a free country.

The men greeted one another like brothers in a hot, grubby underground tunnel. They were brothers in blood. A feast was laid on for the American's arrival – he ate heartily, forcing the precious food down out of respect. The night came and finally Simon was allowed to retire. He fled the banquet to his own quarters. The room was a dugout attached to the leader's room. They were the only two with steel reinforcement in the ceiling; they were the only two with an escape route from the underground network. The bed was made from three wooden crates pushed together, with straw bedding and rough blankets and a sandbag as a pillow. The walls were damp with the humidity from human bodies. Simon felt it was what he deserved. He welcomed the harsh conditions. Standing silently in reflection, he failed to notice Jeremiah's towering presence in the small doorway.

"How is your peace, Simon?" The older man turned as he heard the thick words of the Ephari tongue.

"I am always happy to see you." Simon's grasp of the language was good, and it was flooding back to fluency.

"Brother, do not lie. You are not happy."

"No."

"I remember when you were young, you used to smile."

"So did you." Simon turned and faced the other man; they stood, both trying to discern the others' pain. "I haven't felt like this in so long." Simon conceded as he sharply ripped the material of his shirt. The sound of the tearing material reverberated through the semi-darkness. Jeremiah bowed his head at the ancient statement of anguish.

"Breathe slowly, brother." A figure that would potentially be the most powerful person in the country stood comforting the man sent to protect him. He whispered a prayer.

"I am not worthy of your prayer tonight."

"You are worthy to me." There was no argument, Simon's life would always be worthy; it was the carrier of his word.

The men sat in a darkened room, a crate made a small table between them and they sat on the floor, in the dirt. A bottle of native spirit stood with two shot sized glasses. They drank. Jeremiah spoke about politics and his family. Simon told him of Ferdinand, how his family had a wonderful father and how he had been adopted into their family as Uncle Simon. It was a beautiful thing, he said, after the loss of his parents, to find that love. The subject of love; Jeremiah had seven wives, all of whom he loved dearly, all of whom gave him children who he loved fiercely.

"What do you know of love, brother? You don't wear a ring any more."

"I got a divorce."

"Why?"

"I lost my Mother to cancer, I went away on tour. I came back and she was gone. It was that simple. We didn't even fight." The younger man was confused; it was beyond him how love deep enough for marriage could fail.

"We were young." Simon shrugged. He accepted it now. That was it. At the time it had been a different story, but now it was done and she had been gone for so long, her face no longer haunted him in his dreams.

"And now, that you are old?"

"Something real found me."

"You love her?"

"Yes."

"She is waiting for you to return."

"No."

"Why?"

"I left her before dawn yesterday. I said goodbye." Jeremiah said nothing more, saying goodbye in Ephari meant forever. Jeremiah knew as well as anyone that a man in the face of death does things that any other man would never consider; forsaking love was one such act. It was a comfort to him to know that his bodyguard knew the reality of the situation, but all the same, he wanted to share the burden of the pain. He poured another glass of the black, foul smelling liquid. They drank to love. The alcohol burning all the way down into his chest filled his heart with burning remorse and flaming frustration at fate, and at God.

Hours passed, the bottle of vicious spirit grew empty. Simon Donovan had not been this horribly drunk in a long time. As he collapsed onto his hard bed, he remembered the last time had been when Aimee has so cruelly left him. Ripping the folded paper from his chest, he starred at CJ, praying with silent words that the Ephari gods would spare him from the judgement from the hurt he tossed her into; that he might return to her and see that smile once more.

TBC-


	6. Long Goodbye

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all.

* * *

Chapter VI – The Long Goodbye

Simon no longer felt American. He hadn't spoken English for over six months; he dreamt in Ephari, where he heard her voice utter the rich language in place of her soft use of their native tongue. Every night he saw her face, always he would see her happy, see her laughing at him on the street in New York, feel her against him in front of the fountain; yet every dream ended in the same way: the hurt in her eyes as she slapped him, often he'd wake in a cold sweat clutching his face. The guilt never seemed to go, the look in her eyes haunted him. He knew that it was something deep to have got this far under his skin, sometimes he took comfort that it might be love, but sometimes alone in the dead of night, he grew bitter and wished it away. She was still under his skin, which had grown dark from the days in the sun, the iron rich water they washed in, and the natural bean dye Jeremiah insisted he bathed in to darken his hair and beard. It would be fair to say that he was completely unrecognisable, aside from his eyes, which still burned bright blue.

Everything that Dayton carried loomed over her, a brief second of relief washed over her when she thought it was possible she might not have to go. Toby's intervention was not outwardly welcomed, but it was something she knew she had to do. Everything there carried a weight. The kids who excluded her at school, the only example she had left of marriage in failed ruins and her Father who was leaving her slowly, cruelly: it was commonly termed the long goodbye. CJ reflected that perhaps she had seen too many goodbyes in her life; the sound of the word played on her mind, it sounded odd as she thought about it too much as the plane progressed through the night sky. A thought struck her, Simon had never even said goodbye. She scolded herself; it had been a few months since she had blockaded him from her conscious mind, her dreams were a different matter, but she had tried with all of her might to shut her memory and thoughts of him out. It had been liberating not thinking about him every moment of the day, seeing something that reminded her of him, or just sitting daydreaming about how it could have been different; it was usually at the point of the memory of the feather light touch of his skin on hers that she forced herself out of her fantasies, or woke herself from her turbulent dream. Goodbye was a phrase we treat so lightly, she thought; now the weight of those words pressed her eyelids shut over her tired, contact-lens-dried eyes.

It was raining in Dayton; the rain always felt the same and the smell brought memories of childhood and school years flooding back. The instance that rang out in her mind was walking home one night when she was fifteen, in the April showers; her heart broken for the first time by a square headed quarter back named Jeff. As she allowed herself the thirty seconds of thought whilst scanning around for a cab, he drifted into her line of vision. The sparkle in his eyes hit her hard, the tension in their shared taxi made her feel uneasy; Marco wasn't the boy she remembered and she wasn't the scared girl who left Dayton in search of something bigger. He was handsome, her partner in crime all those years back, outcasts together, she had never been destined to be the most famous of their class, and he never wanted to look past the next few days. He had mellowed, calmed down and she had exploded out of her shell. Funny how the past feels so alien she mused.

Seeing her Father was painful, seeing him slip away from her was pushing her toward the limit of her emotional forbearance. Standing with him in that icy river as he failed to recognise who she was terrified her, it was a precursor of things to come, and moreover, standing there, they were exposed and alone; there was nothing she could do. But indeed, what could she do? Wanting to gather her father in her arms and tell him it was ok seemed to be far from enough, the act seemed perfunctory and in that instant, her heart wished that she herself could be scooped up in strong arms and comforted from her darkest day. The fact that she wished for Simon's arms, for him to be there to protect her from this awful fate seemed to make it worse. Who was Simon Donovan, how dare he leave her to face this alone? The fear she felt from her stalker was nothing compared to this. What little strength she had left she pulled together and took her beloved Daddy home. A home that used to be warm, she hadn't looked upon the clutter wondering if it would do her father some harm, the affection she had for the rustling in the kitchen now frankly scared her; the piano, yes, the sweet sounds of her father's soft hands running over the keys, the memories brought tears to her eyes. The tears finally fell long and hard when he looked at her, he looked at her in that photo as if he didn't care, he couldn't remember that dress he had bought her, he couldn't remember that she was posing for him, that even as a child she loved him with all her heart.

Marco was the one that reached into her world, who was her temporary shelter from the storm. Sitting in the warm air of the car, her tears had dried, but her heart was twisting and turning, wondering in so many directions. Looking over at him, she thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing, that she needed it, she would be in control. Control she had lost when Simon Donovan had walked so confidently into her life; control she'd fought to keep for three weeks before so willingly laying it down in a New York hotel bed. The key in Marco's hand turned, the growl of the engine assured her she needed this.

Simon Donovan stood as alone as he could under the protection of the barbed wire and security towers. He gazed out through the fencing into the abyss and cupped his worn hands. Kissing his right palm with chapped lips through a thick beard, he closed his eyes and blew his kiss out into the midnight air. "It should reach you tomorrow CJ," he whispered, his soft words chasing the thought away into the slight breeze. His eyes opened and he watched his token of hope flutter into the darkness. For a moment, he felt like perhaps she might not have forgotten him, but something was telling him inside that he was asking too much. It would be Valentine's Day at sunrise. The dark expanse of the night sky can make a human feel so lonely; in a way he hoped she would be feeling it too. For, although he admitted he would deserve it, he couldn't live with the idea that this pain was one-sided and ultimately in vein.

Marco's lips comforted her skin, his hands held her softly. He felt good over and inside her. Feeling raw pleasure from this one-off let her take control of her life that had been spiralling away. She had forgotten what it was to kiss someone and feel only the sensation on her lips, to have sex rather than make love. There was care, and there was emotion, but not to the soul-wrenching depth of her night in New York nine months before. It was easy, and it was lustful, the way she had always known sex to be. Finally, it was one last triumph over Simon. He had left her hurt and alone, but this was a one-night stand that she felt good about. The thought came to her mind as she lay listening to Marco's heartbeat: she was over him. Smiling like a naughty teenager, she kissed Marco again, still she felt nothing; she felt safe.

CJ had been back from her trip home for only a week, the mix of emotions were still very much at the surface: the pain over the slow loss of her beloved Daddy, the liberation and comfort that she had found in Marco's warm body. It was nearing noon and she had buried herself in work, blotting out the thoughts of loss and love that harrowed her in her sleep.

"CJ!"

"Yeah, Carol?"

"Some Detective from New York's for you."

"What?"

"Detective Miles of the NYPD, for you." CJ was struck dumb for a moment.

"Where?"

"In the lobby." CJ felt her stomach pit and dive; she couldn't understand why he of all people would be here to see her, maybe it was divine punishment for her comfort indulgence in Marco. "I can tell him you're busy." Still, curiosity somehow got the better of her and she conceded to be reminded of Simon Donovan's existence.

"No. I'll go. Hold my calls, I won't be long."

The smartly dressed Detective stood alone, staring at his fine Italian boots, he seemed to be unperturbed by the eight pairs of Secret Service eyes on him, but inside he was a festering ball of rage and hopeless despair. She brushed into the foyer, complete with a plastic smile:

"Detective?"

"Ms Cregg." The shorter man was not as welcoming as he had been in New York, the warmth in his voice when he'd been fooling with Simon was all gone; he was formal and more than businesslike. He didn't offer his hand.

"Hi. Can I help you?"

"Where is he?"

"Who?" She hated the fact that her mind snapped straight to Simon Donovan, but went ahead and asked anyway.

"Agent Donovan, ma'am."

"I have no idea." Her tone was dismissing, uncaring and cold. He, on the other hand, was on fire.

"You don't know, or you don't care?"

"I'm sorry, Detective?" CJ was slightly flustered by his tone, of course she cared, even if she wasn't about to tell the world that she had been hurt and had shouted over her heart in convincing herself mentally that she didn't in fact care.

"Have you been in contact with Simon Donovan?"

"Detective Miles, I don't understand where this is going…"

"Just answer the question ma'am!" He snapped – she was being obtuse and unsympathetic to his cause.

"No, nothing – he's been gone for months now, I'm surprised he didn't tell you." Her tone was that of frustration and annoyance. The Detective's face fell, his rage left him in an instant; the colour managed to drain noticeably from his tanned face. His boots took him a step back from her.

"OK." He nodded blankly, and backed off slowly, "Sorry to bother you. Thank you for your time ma'am." He bowed ever so slightly, turned and started for the exit. CJ was puzzled at his sudden change in mood. Usually policemen had a game face to wear.

"Detective?" He stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to her. "Is everything OK?"

"I have no idea." The reply was a marked mimic of her earlier dismissal. She took the few strides over to him; her voice was hushed.

"Why are you in DC?"

"To pay his little brother, Anthony's bail."

"What? Why? That's nothing to do with me. Why did you come?"

"Did you two fight?"

"I still don't know why you're…!" The fire returned and he cut her off again.

"I need to know, did you fight; did he get angry or upset?"

"No! He just upped and left, nine months and two weeks ago!" CJ stunned herself at her words, sure she hadn't been counting the days, the weeks, nor did that date in May stick in her mind… She held her head in her hands at her involuntary admission. Miles was silent. He had been fighting the reality of the evidence in his mind. Simon hadn't said goodbye. His hand slowly found it's way to the scar on his jaw. His eyes glazed over and he unconsciously backed away from the Press Secretary.

"Detective?" CJ's tone had quietened somewhat. "Are you ok?"

"Yes. Sorry ma'am. I'll go now." He started walking.

"Wait, you can't just come here, accuse me of…" She strode after him "then leave without any explanation." Miles turned forcing CJ to stop face-to-face with him; he spoke, his was voice blunt:

"Yes, I'm sorry Ms Cregg, but I'm afraid I really can." He turned and left CJ standing dumbfounded and alone.

"Fine!" She tried to shout after him, but it emerged as a whisper. It was raining and he swept away from her faster than she could follow. Defeated, she returned slowly to her office and the remainder of the nightmare the week had been so far.

TBC-


	7. Eric Orson

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all.

* * *

Chapter VII – Eric Orson

The year seemed to be speeding along; they had hit the ground running with the second Bartlett term. The bombshell of Danny Concannon's discoveries about Kumar was set to disrupt peace, but that was not the only problem stirring. The Ephari elections were set to take centre stage in the world's media, the run up to which had already gathered ferocious pace. The two opposing leaders were not going to let the battle go without a fight, and it was becoming something of a worry for the superpowers watching one of the largest and most unstable countries of the Middle East come to racial and ethnic loggerheads in a political race for ultimate power.

Danny Concannon lingered in a doorway he knew all too well. She was engrossed in a report; he knocked lightly to catch her attention. CJ's eyes flicked up, simultaneously she groaned, anticipating another advance in the problem the reporter was posing to the stability of the administration.

"If it's about Kumar, Danny I really don't want to know right now, I've got this…" He cut in:

"Hi there Danny, how's it going?" She glared at him. He looked at her wistfully – she had missed that look.

"I'm not going out to dinner with you." Danny sighed, his buoyancy faded.

"Well I'm glad you still think about that CJ, but I'm here on business." She had been one up, now it was her turn to lose her grin.

"But it's not Kumar?"

"No."

"Then…?"

"Has the Bartlett Administration got any interest in the elections in Ephar?"

"As much as the next superpower watching, Danny. What's going on?" She tried to appear nonplussed, leaning back in her desk chair although to Danny, she sounded a little uneasy.

"I have a source."

"Danny…" She warned, rising from her desk, his eyes didn't leave hers as she took the few steps over to him.

"CJ, you know I'm asking you out of the briefing room as a favour?"

"Danny, you've always been kind to me and to this Administration, you know I appreciate that." There was a playful hint of sarcasm as CJ attempted to dissipate the tension that had grown in the small space between them.

"Did you send someone to protect Jeremiah ben-Kurah?"

"Danny, I know as well as you do that we have no grounds to interfere."

"That didn't stop us going in before."

"That was an issue in the seventies Danny." He looked at her sceptically.

"You'll have an answer for me?"

"Danny?" She could see the remorse in Danny's eyes. He was the conscience of the Administration she often thought, and at moments like this she could see something in him that wished he didn't have to question her, but his commitment to the job was never anything less than one hundred percent. They might have had a chance at something together if he – it occurred to her those thoughts were running through her head and she silently cursed herself. Danny looked on her with sad eyes, not for the words he was about to utter, but for the person she no longer was. He saw a sad woman, someone who under the surface was raw and alone; once upon a time, beside the frantic rows, he'd bring a smile to her face, warmth that he felt no longer. He wondered what had changed. Perhaps, he thought, it was being stalked, even though he reasoned that CJ was a tougher person than that. She looked at him with eyes as she had when they rowed in the Oval Office, and he left her all those years ago.

"I have a name." She nodded her silent understanding. "Eric Orson." She smiled professionally. He bowed his head and momentarily hated his job, but he didn't move. "CJ… I'm sorry." He wanted more than anything to make her feel ok again, despite her cheery briefings; he seemed to be watching slip farther away. She softly shook her head, there was nothing he should be sorry for; he was just doing his job. She sat back down at her desk and scribbled the name down, pausing and placing her pen down, she looked up at a man she had once thought possible to love. The tenderness she had once seen was still a prominent feature in his face, she gathered strength from his warm eyes, but the spark had gone. Danny backed slowly out of her office. "I'll be at my desk." His voice was soft, his footsteps faded and she picked up the phone.

Ron Butterfield walked purposefully into Leo McGarry's office. Margaret had shown him in, Leo stood, a look of concern on his face.

"Ron."

"Good evening Mr McGarry."

"Eric Orson."

"Yes sir."

"He's American." Leo stated, hoping Ron would correct him.

"An ex-Ranger sir. Four tours to Ephar in the seventies."

"Did we put him in Ephar this time?"

"No sir."

"Then what's the deal?"

"Eric Orson, sir." He handed a manilla file over. Leo took it, and still standing, opened the file. At the sight of the photo in the front of the dossier, he took a deep breath and sat down.

"I'm gonna read this now." With a sharp "Yes sir." Ron made a quick exit; his stomach was churning uncharacteristically, his thoughts straying to the Press Secretary who had raised the issue.

It was late. Danny tapped furiously at his laptop, the work of having two major stories on the go never seemed to subside; he loved it all though – it made his world go round. She watched him from the shadows for a minute before he sensed a presence. He turned, but fell silent when he laid eyes on her willowy figure in the half-light. She smiled nervously.

"Danny?"

"Yeah?"

"Could we…" She took a deep breath, "… could we talk… like we used to?" Danny felt his heart tug; she looked so vulnerable, like he had never seen her before.

"Sure. You wanna go some place else?" She moved her head in a half nod. Danny took his cue and quickly saving his work, escorted her from the building. She let him drive her, in a half daze, thoughts ran over her glazed eyes but she couldn't catch them. Instead she watched the orange of the street lamps pass them by, punctuating the alcoves of darkness in the city, sending fleeting shadows dancing across their faces.

Danny drew up outside his apartment block, outwardly he was strong, resolved, but inwardly he was worried about CJ. He cut the engine and they sat in the silence that had been their company since they left the White House.

"Is this ok, I thought you might want some privacy?" She didn't respond. "Or I could take you home if you want?" Still nothing. "CJ?" Her eyes looked past the windscreen, past the street ahead and off somewhere Danny seemed unable to reach her. Gently, he touched her arm. "Hey, CJ?" At his soft touch, she snapped back to reality.

"Danny! Where are we?"

"We're outside my apartment I was just saying I could take you home but I don't know where you…" She cut in:

"No, this is fine." She got out, slamming the door, Danny followed hastily, unsure of quite what was going on. They rushed inside, CJ seemed anxious to be behind closed doors.

Inside his modest apartment, Danny showed CJ to the couch. She slumped in it and threw her head back, as she sighed, the worn but confident woman seemed to return. Danny sat on the edge of the cushion, not wanting to intrude. Again, they sat in a contemplative silence. It was an easy silence, yet Danny yearned for her to give him some indication as to what was going on.

"Did you ever get into something so deep you look around and don't recognise where you are?" She asked. Danny didn't miss a beat before softly issuing his reply.

"Yeah."

"What did you do?" CJ turned to face him, her face was drawn and she looked momentarily older than she had under the lights of the briefing room that morning.

"I…" Danny sighed. "I wrote, immersed myself in my work." He snorted. "I stuck my head in books and papers so I didn't have to get to know the new surroundings." CJ nodded.

"Did it work?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I never found out, because I met someone who lifted my face up, and looking around I realised it wasn't that bad."

"It wasn't?" She looked sideways at him.

"No. It really wasn't. They made me ask, what's the point in wanting something that's done and gone?"

"Because I won't give up." She looked at him hard, he still had no idea of her agenda, even when she sighed. "And I really don't want to let go."

"CJ…" She looked at him with eyes that told him no matter what she was immovable on that. "CJ, what happened?" She shut her eyes, trying to barricade the tears behind her lids; she failed as a tear escaped. Danny leant over hand took hold of a slender hand.

"It's ok, you don't have to…" She did anyway.

"Last May, Danny – I… my bodyguard, we…" She looked at him and he knew what she meant, then she carried on, at first trying to justify it "after... the stalker was caught though." She inhaled sharply against the tears; Danny kept his hand on hers and squeezed in reassurance. "Then he left me, just said he had to go! And now my Dad's leaving me too… Danny – Jesus Christ! I can't do this!" She broke down, slipping her hand from his to cover her face. He pulled her into his arms, hushing her. He felt completely terrified and honoured at the same time. Any feelings of lust he had ever had for her were transferred into compassion, and there they would stay; in his arms she felt just like his little sister.

"It's ok, CJ – have a cry, get it out."

"I can't do this!" She sniffed.

"Yeah you can CJ, it'll be ok." He rocked her back and forth just as he had Emily.

"Everyone I love, Danny, all of them! They leave me!"

"Shhh, no they don't CJ."

"Simon left me, my Dad's losing his mind!" And you left me, she thought, although through the tears she somehow restrained herself.

"I know it's hard, you'll get through."

"How?"

"You're the most stubborn woman I know, CJ believe me, you'll get through." They were quiet aside for her sobs. After a few minutes, she settled into his arms, feeling comforted and unafraid he would go. She could hear his steady heart beat; it helped her gain control of her breathing.

"Thank you Danny." She mumbled into his shirt. He squeezed her tight.

"You feel any better yet?" a muffled 'mhmm' came from the think frame in his arms. "CJ, really, are you ok?" He drew her away from his chest to see her face; her mascara had run making streaks down her porcelain cheeks, her red eyes looked intensely into his.

"Fine."

"Shall I take you home, you need some rest."

"Can I stay here, Danny, please?"

Only a week ago, it would have been a dream come true to go to bed with CJ Cregg. Now, it drained him in the way that a friend shares the weight, she clung to him as if he were her brother. It was intimate, but not sexual; loving yet not arousing; he held her and they were not moved to find the connection they once shared. Finally he felt some warmth in her, if nothing else, there was hope kindled in her soul. No matter what the days threw at her, he had reminded her that she could face it.

TBC-


	8. Inauguration Day

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all. 

* * *

Chapter VIII: Inauguration Day

"We don't have his damn phone number!" The President yelled. "How do we not know his phone number, isn't there a world leaders section in the damn phone book?" Charlie smiled,

"He hasn't released the phone number yet sir."

"Hasn't released it?"

"Yeah, they're still rewiring the old Palace." Charlie found it hysterical that they couldn't get the number, it was frustratingly ironic.

Leo's presence in the room calmed the situation.

"Jeremiah ben Kurah won."

"Yeah."

"There's going to be a member of the United States Secret Service at his side when he gets inaugurated, it could be a problem." Bartlet stood from his desk, advancing upon his friend. Charlie takes it as his note to leave, and Leo watches him out.

"Who knows?" The President's voice is hushed, worn from the various complications the media has caused in his two terms already.

"Danny."

"Christ!" His fist finds the desk top, "is there anything he doesn't know?"

"Apparently not." Leo sighed. "Ron knew he was going out there, but officially, he's rogue."

"That's not great when he gets back."

"He might never come back."

"That would be convenient for the papers."

"There's a file."

"Who is he?"

"Eric Orson. Tours to Ephar with the Rangers in the seventies, ben-Kurah saved his life as a ten year old."

"Ranger morality?"

"Combination, it's the Ephari custom to owe your life, to repay the debt."

"So we just say that?"

"He's got a more complicated history than that sir."

"He would." The words fell heavily, the dismay of the President clear.

"There's another name." Jed raised his eyebrows in question. "Simon Donovan. Special Agent Donovan to be precise."

"The guy who protected CJ."

"Yeah, you got it." Leo confirmed. They both remembered the softly spoken man who protected the woman they both saw as a daughter.

"She know?"

"No. Danny just dropped Orson on her. I he hasn't any more as far as I know."

"Okay." Jed relaxed for a second and Leo paused, wondering whether he ought to go on.

"I remember someone saying they had a thing though."

"What?" The President shifted, his forehead creasing like it was one of his own daughters his friend was speaking of.

"Josh said they had a 'thing'!" It had been meant to be nothing, Leo had hoped his friend would just pass it over.

"Like did he sleep with her? That's not just a thing when it's the Press Secretary and her bodyguard! How did I not hear this?"

"There was something more important like we just killed Sharif." Those words hit hard, Jed hated to hear them.

"Does anyone else know, like, I don't know, Danny?"

"He hasn't mentioned it."

"Great."

"It's not in the file, it didn't make the papers last May."

"Not in the file?"

"I asked Ron, he was very quick to say Donovan was in the clear, it happened after his assignment ended."

"And CJ doesn't know he's playing bodyguard to the President of Ephar?"

"No."

"O-kaay." Bartlett wondered how things like that happened, how the most powerful people in the country always seemed to be the last to know. The conversation was over, the pieces set. It was all up to Daniel Concannon as to how they would have to be played. For once, Jed Bartlett couldn't see ahead, he didn't even know if his opponent would sit down and play.

There had been a quiet celebration at the ben-Kurah camp the night their leader was named the President of their country. There was composed joy and merry drinking. The man himself made a speech in their midst, the inauguration was in a week, they would move in during that time, ready in the Old Palace to assume control on the Sunday, the first day after the Holy Day of August.

The evening dust had settled, the underground network of tunnels and rooms was filled with the sound of joy. The night wore on, and in the first hours of the morning, Jeremiah was finally alone. Almost alone. Simon sat opposite the doorway to the room, his eyes sharp and ears trained on the familiar movements of feet. The joy that had run through him when he realised the result was different to the others'. It was melon collie. It was meant to be his release. He had come to his patron's side at a time of need, and he was going to go home unharmed, he was going to go home, leaving a legacy of a security agency second only in his mind to the American Secret Service, and most of all, he was going home to her. Yet still, his heart hung heavy.

"Brother. Let me call Ztakar so that you can rest."

"Thank you, but I want to watch the door tonight, I feel something different in the air."

"You feel something different? Perhaps it is the feeling of victory, the feeling that you can see the end in sight for you?" Simon did not know what to say to avoid offending his friend, a part of him felt like he belonged in this desert country, protecting a man and an ideal so precious to him; he had been fighting this war for so long. "You will go home, Brother?" When finally confronted with the question, Simon was confused, his true thoughts came flooding forward:

"I don't know if I will find happiness if I return."

"I have watched over you, Brother you have suffered in all of these days." Simon looked questioningly at his friend. "I have seen in my sight the distress of loneliness in the stare of many; you wear their eyes. You look at the desert and ask her to take you in her hand back across the water." That he had, but there was a sense of duty, a dense of despair that choked the words his heart spoke.

"I do not wish to leave you, Brother."

"You never really came to me." the new President was not scolding, his voice was not said, yet Simon looked ashamed. "There is no need to cast your eyes down for your honour is here with me. That is all that is expected of our custom." The realisation hits him hard. Rationality to his words is cut off.

"I left my heart there Brother."

"I know." Jeremiah had wondered over to his comrade. His heavy hand lay softly on the American's shoulder, "I know."

The men sat in silence, neither slept. Simon kept his watch, moving only to make a fresh brew of tea.

A week later and the day had come, Simon had prepared for this day. His miniature army was fully briefed, he was proud of them and he had reason to be; they were now highly trained agents of protection. Just men who believed in upholding a common good. Their dress uniform was traditional, white tunics with trousers. White was the colour of righteousness, and that, Jeremiah had decided, was what he wanted his soldiers to wear. To identify the leaders, the generals – they wore a peacock blue tunic, the colour of honour and wisdom in the culture. The cars were bullet-proof and the buildings were to be carefully manned, sharp shooters and men on the ground. It would be a special day. One that did not go wrong.

The inauguration was simple, and it served to unite the country in one moment of history. The speech ben-Kurah made was about equality, about a oneness that he wanted to bring. It was already planted as seeds in the people, the vote had not been a close run thing. The President had the charisma of a prophet, he whipped the crowd up into a frenzy of hope for the future; he inspired them, and there and then made his country great. All through this, Simon stood at his side, watching, waiting. He had heard the words once, they were the same his friend had spoken to his assembly when they took up the political race one year ago. The speech had been for everyone from his most trusted advisor's right down to the orphan kid he employed to to tend the chickens.

The crowd was thick below them, Simon's eyes never lingered in the same place, he was constantly watching. The words washed over him, they kept him sharp – this man was worth saving. He was worth protecting. This was the very feeling that came into conflict with making that journey home. This country would grow, he would love it and watch it, knowing that he had a hand in keeping the world's finest builder safe in his empire. What was at home for him was uncertain. Ferdinand would understand at the end the end of the day why he had gone. Yet the only two other people he cared about would surely hate him by now for leaving. All that was waiting would be pain. Anthony would probably never forgive him; and CJ, well, he didn't expect she would do anything less than tell him to go to hell. She was probably dating some high flying jock who brings her flowers and makes her smile. God that smile.

The ceremony is over before he knows it, there are faces filled with joy, there are those who look unsure, but there are no cold eyes, there are no expressions that make him reach for his gun. The parade through the crowds goes smoothly, Simon never half a footstep behind his man. The euphoria they feel is tangible; it is thick in the air, the country is free and they believe. They believe they can so great things, they are a generation with everything to work for. Everything to live for. They near the car, everything is going to plan; the shooters on the roof tops are alert and have the area around the vehicle covered. One last wave at the crowd and into the – a glint of metal catches Simon's eye for a moment. He hears the all too familiar sound over the mass.

The second it takes for him to turn is just fast enough. It hits him full on in the back, the President's tunic is stained red and they begin to fall, the frame of the car brings their combined form to a stop. The huge Jeremiah ben-Kurah is bundled into the already moving vehicle. Simon tires to shout, but he can't feel the words come out. He recoils and slams the door shut, Jeremiah is looking straight back out at him through the bulletproof glass. His eyes are wide, yet not with fear, just ineffable, soulful pain. Simon pauses, his eyes momentarily reassuring and his hands still on the hot black metal.

Jeremiah flinches for the first time in years as blood spatters onto the window in front of him. The reassuring eyes open wide. Blood smears black across the tinted glass as the car speeds away. He shouts for the driver to stop, but there is no response; he spins around in his seat, helpless. Frantically he searches out of the back window. The dust kicked up by the tyres begins to obscure his sight, but not before his eyes catch hold of the peacock blue. The blur that is a man twists, flailing for a few long seconds before the dust swallows him whole. Jeremiah's fists beat soundly into the seat of the car. He weeps.

"Oh my God." CJ and Toby both swing their legs from his coffee table. A CNN news flash brought them scenes of hysteria. Scenes of a massacre. A crowd struggles to disburse as gunshots ring out. At the centre of it all, men in white uniforms had come together, appearing to have surrounded something on the floor. A car speeds away and it is over in seconds. The tape begins again. This time, the purpose of the men in white is quite obvious, they had formed a human shield over something. Their uniforms become a thick red before the camera pans away and the shooting stops. People run in all directions, some can't move.

"It has been confirmed that there was an attack on President Jeremiah ben-Kurah this afternoon at approximately 1600. During the inauguration parade, shots were fired at the group. The President and his aides were put into cars and driven from the scene. The attack lasted approximately a minute and a half before the perpetrators were killed by Ephari security. It is not clear yet how many were hurt by this event, although we can confirm now that at least thirty civilians are thought to have died."

The flashes of cameras started up with a new intensity. Danny raised his hand, his face was whiter than usual. CJ feared what he was going to say, but part of her wanted something to get into, she called on him.

"I have a source that suggests a shot was fired, point blank range at the President, is there any news on his heath?" It was far too shallow for Danny, too basic, she dreaded his follow up.

"We don't have any information on the President's health, no, Danny."

"My source says that his bodyguard stepped into the line of fire, but I was wondering if Ephar still has a leader?"

"Danny, we don't have that information," he didn't let her finish.

"I ask because that same source says the body guard is American!"

The room erupted, if this were a 1930's red carpet, CJ would have been walking a trail of dead flash bulbs a few inches thick. Leo had told her to keep Danny off, stall him for a while, it wasn't important. Oh how she would have a few things to say about that.

"We do not have that information at this time, I will be back in one hour." Everyone in the room called her name, everyone but Danny. He hated himself right there and then, everyone was on their feet, everyone was wanting a piece of it, snarling and yapping like a pack of wolves to the hunt. It had been selfish, and if there had been anyone else up on that podium, he would have felt pride, he wouldn't have felt like he played a dirt hand of cards.

CJ hit the roof, everyone had told her Eric Orson wasn't a problem. He wasn't about five minutes ago, thankfully, Danny hadn't named him. Thankfully? Who was she kidding, if she could get her hands on that damned red head, scruffy necked! - Her thoughts were interrupted by Leo.

"CJ, I need to talk to Danny."

"Believe me, Leo, it's not just you who needs to talk to Danny!"

"CJ, calm it. Get him in your office and I need it to happen now." Leo's eyes burned with something she hadn't seen in a long while, it was more than passion for the job, the White House, it was the fire of something more personal. CJ obeyed his stare, marching off towards her office.

"Carol!" came the familiar cry. Danny knew the exact face of rage that would greet him, he stood, all but physically shaking in the middle of her office. She stopped dead in the door way. She pointed a finger firmly at him, her eyes pinned him to the spot. He swallowed. "Daniel, do not move!" She stormed away, powered by her frustration and anger.

Leo entered silently, Danny turned when he heard the click of the door catch. The older man proceeded to close the blinds silently. The reporter didn't move an inch. He was not expecting this.

"Danny have a seat and stop looking like I came here to assassinate you, as nice a thought as that may be, that is not my business." Complying with Leo's order, Danny favoured one of the chairs opposite CJ's desk. He stared at Gail. Regrets and doubts began to filter into his head. His emotions were playing him. Leo ambled around the desk and set a manilla folder down. He stood, two fists pressed down into the creamy card. Under his hands, the seal of the Treasury Department was printed in thick black ink.

"Are you going to print his name?"

"I have it." Leo nodded.

"I don't have anything to offer you here Danny. I also know that lying to someone with your guts and experience just doesn't work." From his standing position, Leo was intimidating. "Here is a file about Eric Orson. It's complete. I want you to take some time to..."

"I don't want to read it."

"Danny?"

"Leo, no! I can see what you're trying to do."

"Can you? Can you Danny? I am playing you, but damn it I wish I could tell you why. It's a noble reason Danny."

"I've seen a file on Orson, there's nothing out there to tell, I don't know what game you're trying to play here..." Leo interrupted, slamming his fists on the desk.

"Damn it Danny, he's squeaky clean, I know what you've read! There is no way you will ever find what is in that file outside of this room."

"But why!" Danny was truly perplexed by Leo's actions, he was sure he was being lured into something. Leo's eyes began to burn bright, his fists relented on the folder and he slipped it open. With old hands, Leo flipped through the assorted leaves of paper and photographs, until his fingers struck gold. It was near the back. Accompanied by a glossy print, Leo meandered back around the desk to where Danny was now standing blot upright. Leo held the picture against his chest, the words on the back clearly stated 'S.E.D. CELL CAM'. The men stared one another down; Leo broke the gaze, flipping the photo over and letting Danny's eyes drop to it. The reporter took the photo from the Chief of Staff as if it were delicate china. Leo left the room, calling "Fifteen minutes!" over his shoulder.

It was black and white, but the image was almost more vivid than if it had been in colour. She smiled up at him. He kissed her cheek. They looked the picture of happiness; this was why. Leo was protecting her. His source said the American took the a single hit at point blank range, before suffering more lead. His blood had been spilt on Ephari soil that day. Danny had to know why.

TBC-


	9. Balance

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all. 

* * *

Chapter IX – Balance 

Danny read diligently and quickly, absorbing everything there was to know about Eric Orson – Special Agent Simon Donovan. He sat, numb in CJ's office, having finished after twelve of his fifteen minutes. The photograph of CJ and Simon trembled in his hands. Thoughts ran through his mind, he was overcome with the need to act. To do something, something good, something right. Leo opened the door softly, Danny stood, placing the photo in the front of the folder and holding it out for the older man. The great Leo McGarry let his guard down, his eyes were heavy with emotion, worry or guilt of some kind, Danny couldn't read them.

"She doesn't know, does she?"

"No." Leo stiffened.

"Leo, you have to..." he was cut off:

"No, Danny, I don't." The Chief of Staff was doing a poor job of hiding his internal conflict, "she can't go in there knowing, I can't allow that, knowing what I do from that file."

"That file is the exact reason she should be told!"

"Danny, I need her head in the game for this, bringing up the stalking wouldn't be..." It was Danny's turn to cut in:

"Do you think this is about the stalking? It's not – it's about Eric, Simon, whatever – she fell in love with him Leo!"

"How can you be so sure, Danny?"

"You forget that I used to be close to her, but that aside they're not just happy in that picture!"

"It could have just been a crush?" Leo looked hopefully at Danny, disbelieving completely he was having this conversation with a reporter.

"No." Danny's eyes bore a hint of sadness, "She doesn't look that way when it's just a crush." Leo knew exactly what he was referring to, and for the first time in the last half hour, he trusted Danny completely.

"I'm not going to run his name."

"Thank you."

"For CJ, Leo." The older man met his earnest stare. "But you've got to tell her." Leo bowed his head in agreement and Danny left, his footsteps firm and his stride long.

The next briefing came and went in a whirl, the death toll in Ephar had risen from only thirty civilians to nearly two hundred, only in the space of ninety seconds. President ben-Kurah had given a statement on national television only two hours after the whole incident. He was quick to reassure his people, he looked strong and unmoved by the attempt on his life, but there was no end of remorse for those who died as a result. He called it a national tragedy. There was no talk of the police or his personal guard.

The first question CJ was presented with was in relation to the fateful bodyguard. CJ didn't need to glance down at her briefing pad to confirm the news. "President ben-Kurah's personal bodyguard was an American, his name: Eric Orson..." the room erupted with questions, she spoke over them, "that's o-r-s-o-n, Orson."

"Mike?"

"Is there any news on the status of Mr Orson?"

"No."

"Danny?" Her heart was already beating far too fast, why she called on Danny, she wasn't all too sure, but when she did, a wave of relief washed over her. Danny suddenly took the focus of the briefing far away from the American, concentrating his poignant questions at the future stability of Ephar, coupled with the US's intentions insofar as a new relationship was involved. The others in the room took Danny's lead. Eric Orson was forgotten. For now.

Leo stood at the back of the briefing room, just watching her. His heart felt heavy, Danny had swept Simon Donovan under the carpet. Yet he still felt a duty to tell her – there was something in Danny's eyes that told him he knew something about CJ's feelings that the headstrong woman would never spill in the West Wing; for a moment, he wondered how much CJ still spoke to Danny. They didn't flirt with the same playfulness any more; they both seemed older, almost jaded. The file was on his desk, perhaps he should just let her see it – call Margaret and get her to leave the damn thing open for her to see. He shook his head and sighed. No, there was no need. It was then he felt a presence behind him.

"You didn't tell her yet."

"Danny..."

"You saw the pictures on CNN?"

"Yeah."

"The men in white uniforms, the ones that made a kind of shield around something before the camera panned away?"

"Yeah." Leo's brow creased, his tense posture revealed his fear over the words that would spill from the reporter's mouth.

"My source says they were protecting their leader."

"Orson?"

"Looks that way."

"I thought..."

"I know he took stood in front of the bullet meant for ben-Kurah."

"Danny!" Leo warned.

"Your sources are going to get it in about an hour – but they're not going to get the name Eric Orson. I don't want this to happen to her." Leo's eyes widened, he knew it was coming sooner or later.

"Do you know something about their relationship I should know?"

"No, but Leo, have you seen her lately? She's... empty! I don't think it's stress; I know... I know it's something more – it's loss."

Despite being disturbed by the depth with which Danny had been observing his Press Secretary, he was strangely grateful for the scruffy reporter's heart. He nodded, exhaling deeply and turning away to face up to one of those harder days. Danny watched him, standing in the shadows. He prayed for her, but more than ever, he prayed for a soul he didn't know: he hoped for a miracle.

Margaret knocked softly and entered at the sound of her boss' gruff permission. "Leo – Ron Butterfield." The tall man entered, his head bowed. His face was grave, there was pain very near the surface of his Service mask.

"Simon Donovan, Mr McGary." Leo stood.

"Ron?"

"Simon Donovan is on life support in Shuphis, the Ephari capital. His condition won't be disclosed to us, further than to say he lost a lot of blood on the scene. He is critical, the next twenty-four hours... Mr McGary... I should tell you now that CJ Cregg is named in his Last Testament."

"In what capacity?"

"Donovan wanted her to know why he left." Leo felt his stomach drop, he sat down, deflated.

"I should tell her anyway, when will his name get out?"

"To the Press, sir, I hope never. He is a national hero in Ephar, but they won't be using his American name." Leo nodded.

"Sir, I could tell her."

"Are you..." He didn't want to farm this one out, but at the same time, the offer was perfect. Ron didn't let him finish.

"I have a certain history with this, I;d like to, sir." Leo agreed, Ron had that assuring look in his eyes, and in a cowardly way, he was glad the burden had been lifted.

The knock on her door was one she hadn't heard in a long while. She glanced up from her papers and frantic typing to find exactly what she expected. His frame filled the doorway. His face was stony. Yet he was different, somehow. There was a weight on his shoulders, a hint of pain in his usually expressionless eyes. It worried her. She stood to greet him and he quickly entered, closing the door softly behind him. Ron Butterfield stood in front of her, his hands clasped before him.

"Ms Cregg. We are currently hearing more from our limited sources in Ephar." He swallowed. "As it is, we know that the personal bodyguard to President ben-Kurah is the American Eric Orson." She nods, knowing this bit already; the air is thick with nervous tension. "During the hit, he sustained serious injuries; he's in critical condition in the Shuphis Central hospital's intensive care." He took a deep breath, fixing his eyes on hers. "Ms Cregg, what I'm about to tell you is at the digression of a last testament. The Eric Orson has another name... it's Simon Donovan."

Her hands covered her gasping mouth in an instant. She backed away from her desk. As her back met the wall, she finally blinked. Tears streaked down her whitened face, her eyes wide and unseeing. Ron wanted to offer her some comfort; there was nothing he could say. She stood there for what felt to the two of them an eternity.

"He wanted you to know why he left." She lowered her hands slowly to her sides. Straightening her suit, she regained control of herself. The river of tears dried up, and her eyes froze over.

"Why are you telling me this Agent Butterfield?"

"Simon Donovan's last testament, ma'am."

"Is he dead?"

"No."

"Then why are you telling me!" Ron hung his head for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Because he wanted you to know, CJ. He wanted to know why he couldn't stay. He wanted you to know why he had to leave you, and I can't keep it from you now. Not while he's fighting for his life. Not when all I can do is... pray." Ron turned quickly, facing the door, a hand cradled his forehead, his shoulders slumped.

CJ pushed herself away from the wall, the heart of the man in her office stunned her. She approached him slowly, numbly, and touched his shoulder. When he turned, she got an eyeful of the real man. The man who was losing someone: not a friend, but a man with whom a bond had been made over many years of dependence and mutual respect.

"You know now." Ron slipped from the room, re-adorning his game face; leaving her alone. So alone.

-TBC- 


	10. These Walls

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all. 

* * *

Chapter X – These Walls

CJ stood still and closed her eyes. Ron had shut the door softly, he had left gently after dropping the hugest of bombs on her life. Simon Donovan was in Ephar, he had been protecting Jeremiah ben-Kurah. He had been walking a few paces ahead, no doubt on the correct side. Simon would have been watching, waiting. Then he did his job. He did his damned job! Something snapped in her mind. Perhaps it was jealousy. Maybe it was that old feeling of betrayal and anger. Whatever it was, it took hold of her and wouldn't let go: she hurt from head to toe.

Through the blinds, she must have looked like a ghost, a mere apparition of CJ Cregg. People passed by, busy and impervious to the woman withering away. She didn't know how long she was stood there for, time seemed to have stopped.

The door burst open: "CJ we just got news, the attack was by the Ephari Suprematist League, they're – they're a racial group, aiming to..." She hadn't moved an inch since he entered, "aiming... CJ?" Still, nothing. "CJ?" Her eyes found his, he felt the life drain out of him. "CJ... what's wrong?" Toby's voice took a soothing tone that very rarely featured in the West Wing. "CJ?" Just the stare. Toby tentatively reached a hand out to touch her arm. She looked right through him. "CJ, are you ok?" Nothing. "Come on, CJ talk to me!" Her eyes focused on him, recognition flashed across her face and as her pupils widened, she started to cry silent tears. He caught the first couple with soft hands before she fell into his willing arms. Toby held his friend tightly; he was scared. Scared that someone, or something had done this to her, and moreover that he'd never experienced this side of CJ Cregg before. Rocking her back and forth like a child, he hushed her. Finally, she drew away from him, there was a little colour in her cheeks and her eyes had softened.

"Simon's dying." It was a statement, there was no feeling, detachment only.

"Simon, CJ?" Toby's face morphed into puzzlement.

"He's dying... in Ephar, Toby."

"Oh God... he's not... Orson?" She nodded her head weakly. "He?" She nodded again, Toby had worked it all out; he was horrified when he remembered the look in her eyes the day Donovan had left. That something he thought was hurt at a push had been something deeper. If he could lay his hands on that... he sighed, no he wouldn't.

"CJ?" She smiled so faintly her lips hardly moved. "CJ you're shivering." And she was, not violently, just little shakes, her skin was covered in goose flesh. She nodded and followed Toby to her couch, where he gently wrapped her Afghan around her shoulders and took her cold hands in his. "Better?" CJ nodded. She was in shock partly because of the revelation, but more so the way it had gone right through to the core of her being. She cared; she cared more than anything.

The cruel sound of the ventilator filled the room. Two men in peacock blue stood at the door, two more stood, one in each window. In the centre of the room, by the bed, the Ephari President sat, solemnly watching the bandaged chest of the man he called brother rise and fall. The surgeons had been at work for the past six hours, their patient was stable, but his body was a broken mess. The left shoulder blade was shattered; it had taken the full impact of the first shot. Another five bullets had ripped into the American. One went through the left biceps, another following the first into the shoulder. The other three wreaked havoc in the left side of the chest cavity, causing a collapsed lung and damage to the diaphragm. Tubes drained blood from his chest, tubes fed air into his lungs; sedatives and pain relief were given intravenously. Jeremiah sat transfixed. His hand found its way to the scar on his neck. Silently, in his mind he damned his culture, and he wished for a moment that Simon was not a man of his word. This was the deal; this was the debt, yet it felt wrong: utterly wrong. The hours ticked on. Still the only sounds were the machines; the heavy sound of the ventilator punctuated only by the digital sound that signified Simon's heart rhythm. Doctors and government advisors came and went. The President did not move.

Alone in her apartment, CJ sat in shadow, turning for the first time to a bottle. Jack Daniels. Not her drink of choice, but she kept a bottle for the times, although few and far between, that Toby had come around. Tonight, she didn't want Toby there. She wanted to escape for a few hours. It was the first step of many before the fall. She knew that, but somehow it just didn't matter.

A tall figure knelt at the side of a neatly made single bed. Ron clasped his hands together, they held a rosary tight. The beads were counted away. The prayers were whispered. Only the light from the lamp in the hall breathed any warmth into the room. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of the young Ranger, the Chicago cop, the Special Agent. The thought that surpassed them all was the truth in the man he'd seen the morning he last laid eyes on Simon Donovan. Life wasn't about how good you could be at your job, he knew Simon was that, but he'd been empty. CJ had given him life. He knew that now, and he felt the guilt of the world for taking it away. There was the Ranger's code, there was the Ephari custom they had come to respect as their own – there was human loyalty and the unbroken word of a noble man. There were so many reasons, excuses. None of them seemed to justify it. It was their job, the purpose of their lives to protect, to stand in harms way, but somehow it felt like they had been cheated, duped into it. Ron asked God for a lot of things that night, but the only words he hoped the Almighty would hear were for a man who kept his word, who was courageous, and who was probably dying because of it. Show mercy, Lord. Give me peace.

Work the next morning hurt for CJ, her head was thumping and she felt the periodic urge to throw up. She saw the way they all looked at her; they all knew – all of her friends knew, Leo had told them. They all looked at the dark circles around her eyes that she had not bothered to cover up. They saw the emptiness and confusion. No one said anything, they could figure what had happened the night before. The only man qualified to scold her for it kept his distance; he should have told her himself and it pained him. Danny's eyes were avoidable in the briefings, but she knew they were on her. All these men looked at her, they felt sorrow for her, but knew that she was unreachable – she was beyond their touch. The day dragged on, she caught herself starring at her goldfish, there was no news from Ephar. Nothing.

President Bartlett spared himself a moment, he looked at the clock in the Oval Office, it counted the seconds; time marched on without him for a moment as he wondered when they would fix up the telephones in Ephar. The door opened, preceded by a brief knock. It was Charlie.

"President ben-Kurah on your line." Charlie's expression was heavy, his eyes weary. Jed nodded and reached over to the phone and answered the flashing light, his tone was even, controlled. The thoughts that ran through his head were numerous, but they came to rest on the American he knew would become a part of this conversation:

"Mr President!"

-TBC- 


	11. Presidential Meeting

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all.

* * *

Chapter XI – Presidential Meeting

A fortnight passed away. The time ticked by with ever increasing speed. CJ began to hide her feelings more – her worry and her massive internal conflict. Burying one's self in work at the White House was hardly an effort, and at first it is always hard to notice. On the outside, she had regained her composure. Danny still looked at her with eyes that stripped her down, he saw through the mask, but there was precious little he could say or do, the way it worked these days, she had to come to him; he felt that those days too were over.

The pen in her hand fell to the desk. The weight that told you it was a good pen made the sound all the louder. It was hard to comprehend that a man she barely knew could possibly consume her thoughts and if she were being honest, her heart too. There was an undeniable connection, but in her mind she felt anger towards the man who made her feel this way – what right did he have to invade her life like this? How could he leave her so heartlessly and then expect her to welcome him back with open arms? It finally dawned upon her as she reached for the pen again, that she was making a huge assumption: why did she even expect that he would want that? 'Damnit Simon Donovan, I was so over you!' the whisper to no one was a cry in vain. She recalled for a moment her careless romp with Marco. Even then, deep down it had been the presence of her secret service man – her man – that she had really wanted. Kidding herself that Marco's body had granted herself freedom had been a terrible, terrible lie. It was midnight; Toby had told her to go home three hours ago.

Slipping from the Residence wasn't difficult. Meeting Ron and Leo was normal, even for the time of night. The hard bit was knowing what was coming, apprehension was thick in the air during the car ride. There were no flashing lights; it was not a Presidential limousine. There had been some dark nights Jed Bartlett had spent as President of the United States, and something in his bones told him this might be another to add to the list.

The wind was blustery at Andrew's; the rain was thin in the lights that floodlit the night air. A military carrier in desert colours landed smoothly, the aircraft taxied to a smooth halt. The engines cut, the lack of their deafening noise left the air still. At the back of the plane, a ramp lowered. Men in the now familiar formal white Ephari military dress piled out smartly and formed a parameter a few feet from the plane.

President Bartlett surveyed the scene from the distance agreed, Leo stood at his right shoulder, watching in ambivalence. It was intimidating to the extent that it was very much in the Roman military style; beyond his exit from the plane, their Caesar was to be shielded completely, hidden from view. The Presidential Secret Service detail and a troop of US Marines stood by noting every move of the foreign military group. The meeting should have been an historic event, but without the Press present and the meeting-taking place at the dead of night, it felt ominous and somehow underhand. The newly elected Ephari President was a man preceded by his formidable reputation as a military leader, a man ruthless with his enemies, yet compassionate to his people; a man who now held great power in the Middle East.

The decision to come to America may have, under any other circumstance, alarmed Bartlett. Why would a newly elected President of a nation recently freed from the white population come running so quickly to American soil? Surely he would stir up controversy and unbelief in his people; he had only just survived an assassination attempt, to be seen to leave would have lost him face dramatically.

Following the advance group, a further mass of white, this time speckled with peacock blue made their journey down the ramp. Usually, according to Ephari custom, a standard bearer would have led the way with their majestic flag. This was no official visit, but there was still a flag present; it was folded and held in the hands of their leader. In the midst of the pack, there was their cargo. Four Generals, men who were old in their years, carried a white military field stretcher; it was the greatest sign of honour.

The formation advanced towards the welcome party slowly, the soldiers marched with formal elegance. The Marines stood ready. Ron Butterfield found his hand resting nervously on his weapon. The atmosphere was one of expectation and fear.

The terrific contrast of white and black and blue reached the Westerners. The Ephari troops stopped and broke formation, leaving their leader in the centre of a tight semi-circle, still with his bodyguards on either side. President ben-Kurah advanced forward. The men in blue stayed back and the President stood alone for the first time, he was in a distinctly different black uniform. It was that of mourning. He walked forward purposefully, his frame moving elegantly. As he got closer, the stretcher borne by the four old looking men came into view, but they stood fast.

As he stopped a foot from Jed Bartlett, the Ephari President spoke; his voice was deep and thick, typical of his countrymen:

"Mister President, it is an honour to have an audience with you." He extended a large hand to his American counterpart.

"And with you Mister President, I must admit, this is an unexpected opportunity."

"You wonder why I can leave my country so soon?"

"Yes." Bartlett was stern and firm, establishing his authority on his home soil.

"To return to you a man of honour." The Ephari raised his right hand and the stretcher-bearers advanced in a slow military march, taking care over their cargo. The body on the white canvas was brought to him. Jeremiah turned away and kissed the right hand of the man who had saved his life. Jeremiah laid the folded flag over the chest of the man. There was a silent moment, Bartlett thought he heard a prayer being whispered in the Ephari tongue. Was it a body or a man on the stretcher Jed wondered, anxious at the answer to his question.

"He is alive Mister President." The Epahri spoke slowly and surely. The sigh was never intended on being that loud, but Jed could not help himself. "I have come only to deliver him back to you. He has served his duty to my country: and to me. It is with a sad heart, Mr President that I must return him like this, but there is medical care he requires that although we owe, my country cannot yet provide him with it." He paused, "And while I wait for fuel, we could speak, face to face, as men." There was something noble about the Ephari, he was graceful yet firm. He had been fighting all his life for his country, and when he got it, the honour to a foreigner was priority enough to take him, however briefly, away from it.

"Certainly, I would appreciate that. We have a medical unit standing by as you requested, I can have them come over."

"Yes, thank you sir. For Simon, that would be most kind." The Ephari's voice suddenly softened upon the mention of the name, simultaneously, Jed felt a lump in his throat, it really was Simon Donovan; he was home.

"He's a good man."

"He is a man of his word Mr. President. As am I, and I give you my word that there will be changes for Ephar."

"Yes sir, I don't doubt that." The men smiled at one another, the anxiety lifted.

The leaders spoke in the freely falling mist of rain. Meanwhile, Ron directed the ambulance. Simon Donovan was ceremoniously loaded into the vehicle. Ron beamed uncharacteristically down into the face of a man he once knew. The face had changed, his skin was dark and there were deeper lines, but his eyes: his eyes still burned that steely bright blue. The bulge of bandaging under Simon's tunic was noticeable; his shoulder looked out of line and it was clear why he had returned from Ephar: to have re-constructive surgery. Ron couldn't think of anything to say, he was overjoyed inside that he was back alive, but there was a strange pang of guilt as he looked at the man's broken body in front of him. Before an oxygen mask could be placed over his mouth, Simon got a feeble hold on his boss' arm:

"How is she?" His voice was thick, an overtone of the Ephari language hung on his words, making them hard to distinguish. Ron didn't have to ask to know of whom he was talking about, and he was glad.

"She's OK Donovan, she's fine." He repeated it, sighing and nodding to himself as he perched opposite, wringing his hands together.

"Do you think?" Simon had to catch his breath; Ron replaced the mask over his nose and mouth. After a few steady breaths, he nudged the plastic away. "...she remembers me?" Ron looked serious:

"I think she will." Simon hid his fear under the mask of his changed appearance.

"She won't want to." He reasoned, letting his eyes fall away.

"Simon!" For a moment, Ron considered that he might be right; the pain he'd seen in CJ's eyes, maybe she didn't want to remember, maybe she didn't fancy the emotional roller-coaster she would no doubt embark on if she took this path. His gut got the better of him: "I think you're wrong." The grey blue eyes looked hard at him. They were searching for a thread of truth, and they found reels of it.

"She know?" He groaned, the pain flaring up from his recent movement. Ron closed his eyes, not sure of the reaction he was bout to get.

"Yeah. She knows you were there."

"You?"

"I knew you were hurt..." His voice was hushed, trying to justify his actions, but before his thoughts could get too deep, there was a commotion outside. Ron sprung to his feet, gun drawn and advanced out into the rain.

"Get the hell off me dammit!" yelled a short New Yorker as he was held up in the air by a group of four Secret Service agents. Ron stood and marvelled at the scene, the smart boots of the detective were kicking around in the as he screamed obscenities at them.

"It's ok, let him go." Ron stood stern faced as he holstered his weapon.

"How is he?" The little man gasped as he strode closer.

"Fine, how did you know?"

"I had my ear to the ground, Agent Butterfield." Ron looked at him suspiciously, he hated to think his security had been so slack as to let some detective in... then he remembered; this wasn't just any old detective.

"He's doing really well."

"Have you told her he's here?" Ron's expression told him not. Ferdinand hung his head, his heart had grown heavy watching her since he found out Simon had gone. CJ Cregg hadn't been the same woman he'd met in New York all that time ago; she was sad, lonely and simply less vibrant.

"You have to tell her, Ron." The taller man leant down to speak into his ear, his voice guttural but quiet.

"I think he should have surgery first, he's doing well, but I think a meeting with her might flip him. There was damage to his diaphragm and lungs, his heart has been under a lot of strain – he might not deal with the stress."

"I think it's nothing to the stress if you don't even tell her, and you can bet your ass if you don't, I will." Miles threatened with his cell, he relented at Ron's blank expression. "Can I see him?"

Ferdinand stepped up into the back of the ambulance. The appearance of his best friend startled him briefly. The skin, the hair, the beard...

"Hi there, trouble." Simon smiled. "You didn't tell me you were gone you good for nothing damned..." he stopped himself.

"Sorry." Came the whispered reply.

"Damn right you should be. Anthony is looking forward to seeing you." Simon raised his eyebrows; he thought the kid would hate him. "I told him, he's in my car, probably wrecking the damn thing right now."

That flipped his stomach. Anthony was there to see him. It took his mind briefly off of CJ Cregg. He had left his little brother with nothing but a phone number. "I'm gonna go get him, now you sit tight. It's something you need to do. Tonight." Simon weakly nodded his head and the detective skipped off to retrieve the boy, who had already escaped the car and was being held by Ron himself.

Starring into the chest of the President's head Agent, Anthony took a deep breath. He really wanted to give his Big Brother a huge great smack in the face for leaving him. Anger that Ferdinand had spent a year and a half getting the better of suddenly welled up. He clenched his fists. Just then, the calmingly sarcastic voice he'd come to like quashed his ill feeling in an instant.

"I'll arrest your punk ass for assault you know." Anthony laughed at himself before taking the last few steps past Ron, into the Ambulance.

"He thinks I'm gonna hit you some." The young man said, taking in the sight of the man he had thought invincible; Simon as he pushed the mask away.

"I wouldn't... blame you." He rasps.

"Well, I'll wait till some time when you're not all broken, then you can beat my ass for givin' Miles such a hard time." Simon did his best to raise his eyebrows, "Well not that hard – but you know how I get, and with you leavin' 'n all." Simon felt guilt squeeze his chest tight.

"I'm... sorry Anthony." It was an effort, but the words came out clearly. Anthony looked upset for about a second before letting the grin return to his face:

"So what's up with that beard, I mean aren't you, like a bit old for that – you look real freaky." The smile that washed over Simon temporarily relieved his physical pain. Anthony had accepted him back; it was the first step to normality.

"Traditional." Simon croaked.

"You know, shouldn't talk, you sound bad. I'm riding to the hospital with you. I can chew your ear off all the way."

"Miles... taught you?" Sarcasm didn't escape him even in this state.

"Yeah, with him you don't get a word in edgeways if you don't get there first." Ron bounced into the vehicle, Ferdinand called after him that he'd follow. The doors were shut and with sirens and flashing lights, they were off. Simon drifted off to the incessant talking just as Miles knew he would, it was the sweetest sounding lullaby he had heard in many, many months.

TBC-


	12. Rain Drops

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all. 

* * *

Chapter XII – Rain Drops

As President ben-Kurah shook his hand, Leo felt that sick taste in his mouth. The sight of Simon Donovan had shocked him somewhat, it wasn't until he had heard the words that he truly believed they were not meeting over a dead body. The guilt he had been feeling over CJ was back, he felt somehow responsible for her recent anguish. He hadn't appreciated how right Danny had been – looking at her these past two weeks, he wished she hadn't had to live with the worry, the thoughts going through her head, even he understood, must be hell. Leo hung back as the two leaders began to talk in hushed voices. His focus changed for a while to the ambulance, he saw a feeble hand grasp Ron Butterfield's arm and wondered what was being said. Brief alarm caused his eyebrows to rise as Ron drew his side arm, but his face relaxed into a smile as he saw the brotherly affection of a short man and the warmth of a kid, all that was missing... The ambulance pulled away, and Leo turned back to watching the Presidential meeting. Eventually, he was called over to join in the conversation.

Anthony was left behind as his big brother was wheeled inside. He had been standing alone, strangely still for only a minute before his thoughts were interrupted by the clicking of Miles' boots on the pavement before the entrance. The New Yorker placed a hand on the shoulder of the youngster.

"Y'alright, kid?"

"Yeah." The both stood watching through the glass doors of the Emergency Department as Simon's trolley was loaded into an elevator. "He looked real small, Freddie." Miles stiffened, not removing his hand from Anthony's shoulder. He'd never called him Freddie before, although Miles had offered it when they had first met – he'd thought Anthony would have found 'Ferdinand' too laughable.

"Yeah." What more could he say – that was exactly how Simon had looked. Small. Somehow, the man that usually towered over the both of them had just looked so vulnerable. It was unnerving. "But he's tough, you know that Anthony."

"Sure." There was little conviction in the lad's voice; Miles sighed quietly, then started walking toward the entrance, lightly pushing Anthony ahead of him.

Leo sighed, Jeremiah ben-Kurah boarded his plane, thanking the President. The engines fired up. The Marines stood fast, and against that background, Leo and Jed turned in the rain as the plane taxied. The car was waiting, and soaked, they slumped in the back together. Neither had spoken since the Ephari President left their company. The empty airstrip went by in the dark. Water dripped off their noses.

"You warm?" Leo enquired.

"Nope."

"Hey, can we have some heat in here?" The driver was compliant and turned the fans up – even though the cabin was warm already.

"I thought we were being men?"

"Yeah, but when you're my age, sir."

"Yeah, alright."

Silence fell again. As the lights of the city neared, Leo shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"So Donovan's back." Jed twisted round to face his friend who was staring out of the vehicle.

"Yeah."

"I gotta tell CJ." The President's brow creased.

"Leo..." He warned.

"I didn't tell her he was there, I let Ron do it – better she hear it from me this time."

As the nurses fussed around their latest arrival, Ron Butterfield signed him in. Filling in the form was easy, these were details he'd written on many forms in the past; there was only one box that remained empty: "Name". A nurse prompted him to finish as quickly as possible so that they might find the patient's notes. There was a small window for surgery to take place in the morning if all the assessments and examinations were done now, at the dead of night. The pen in his hand betrayed his heart as it etched the "E" into the form. Resting back from the desk, Ron took a deep breath, only to be interrupted by the crash of equipment from the side room to his left.

Bracing himself against the door frame, Ron saw an agitated Simon Donovan clutching his right hand protectively over something on his good side. The rest of his torso was hideously bruised, the colourful patterns on his flesh extending out under the bandaging all the way down to his stomach. Simon was breathing heavily, his oxygen mask askew on his face. The nurses stood back from the snarling wounded animal. They looked confused and scared, turning very cautiously to Ron for explanation or help.

Those blue eyes burned with a fire so intense, even Ron was captivated for a moment; until Simon's growled words snapped his attention back to the wider picture.

"They... want to... take it..." His sentences were punctuated by his need to catch his breath, "can't let them!" Ron was puzzled, he'd never seen this look on Donovan's face – not during the rigorous Secret Service training and not even when they were under fire. Pain was rife in his quivering lips, but the rest of his face was set – his slightly hollowing cheeks pulling the skin tight around his features. The gesture of a hand to the nurses, and they backed away, letting Ron advance towards the cot. This hand remained outstretched as he approached slowly. Their eye contact never faltered for a moment.

"Simon?" The patient was frozen still. "Simon, it's ok – what are they trying to take, son?" Ron took the role of the senior officer, the elder brother, the father figure – everything he'd been taught to calm a man down. To calm even the tightly wound units that the agency produces. The man in the bed looked through his commanding officer, through his boss to a man he knew lurked somewhere beneath the surface; Ron felt the boundaries being broken down and did nothing to stop it. "What is it Simon?"

Without a word, the quivering hand moved to reveal a small plastic covered square that had been carefully taped to the skin. As Simon struggled, soft hands helped him with the task of removing it. Holding the tape-covered packet in his hands, Ron looked for instruction.

"Keep it... safe... means a... lot." The rasp in his voice coupled with the overtones of Ephari made it hard to catch the words, but sometimes, words were not necessary to see the truth in a person's thoughts. In that moment, neither of them had noticed the arrival of two more visitors. The soft clearing of a man's throat threw Ron back to his full height, the agent let his eyes fall cold and reserved as he met Ferdinand and Anthony.

"Everything a'right here Simon?" Miles asked sceptically, not sure at this moment to what extent he ought trust Ron. The head of the President's security stepped aside, revealing a sun and dye darkened, but peaceful face. Miles had been informed that they were preparing Simon for the scans and examinations before what was going to be the first stage of a lengthily rehabilitation process. There wasn't much time before his friend went under the knife; there wasn't much more time after that before his presence would become far from anonymous. The short man took the few steps up to the cot.

"Hey you..." Simon smiled. "I'm gonna be here, Anthony's gotta go to college," the ever-expressive eyebrows raise. "yeah, college, you heard me right, wants to be a cop now y'know!" A smile broke across Simon's face, and as his eyes met with Anthony's, tears gazed over their surface. The soft one-way banter continued for a minute or two, before Miles abruptly asked Anthony if he'd give them some time with Ron, alone. The youngster was wary to comply, but made no fuss.

"Simon, I gotta ask you this now." Miles paused, looking hard at Ron. "You wanna see her before you go under?"

"Miles!" Ron pleaded, then looking at Simon, "I know you want to see her, out things right, I don't know, but you're about to have major..."

"God damn! Surely that's reason enough to see her Butterfield!"

"What about the stress, he doesn't need that right now!"

"Won't it lay his mind at rest, at least knowing she's been informed he's in the damn country!"

"What good will it do right this minute!" The two men were squaring up to each other, Ferdinand's chin was set hard against his former commanding officer; Ron stared down intensely at the shirt detective – there was a brief silence in the shouting, punctuated by a mumbling from the cot.

"What... what about... what... I want?" Simon croaked. Ron and Ferdinand looked sheepish. Their shoulders relaxed and they moved away from one another to face their friend. He swallowed hard before speaking. "I... don't want... her to see me... like this." Both looked slightly stunned at the answer. Simon's breathing was still coarse, his body still rebuilding his damaged lung and torso.

"But, Simon?" Ferdinand started, he fell silent when a tanned hand was feebly raised.

"Not... like – this." Simon's face was hard, yet his eyes betrayed his real feelings. He longed more than anything to see CJ Cregg; his heart burned just to get some kind of confrontation over with – no matter the outcome. Yet it was his head that spoke – it wasn't fair to present her with a pathetic mass, and his pride – for this mess wasn't the man she knew. He turned his face away, not allowing them to see the silent tear that escaped down his left cheek.

It was three am. She'd been home for only an hour. Eventually, the West Wing had emptied and she thought she should get some sleep. Great thought, but now that she was at home, the empty space that was her apartment was keeping her awake. She sat in the bay window seat, knees drawn up to her chin, just staring at the street visible in the pools of light below. A frog hopped along the pavement. How out of place, frogs belonged in parks and ponds, not side-walks. Yet it seemed quite happy, just bopping along, without a care in the world. For a moment, CJ was jealous – how easy it is for animals just to struggle for life; with one goal in mind, with no regret, emotional pain... her thoughts were cut off by the sharp tone of her cell.

"CJ Cregg" She answered wearily, she hadn't bothered to glance at the caller ID, it would be the White House, no one else at this hour.

"It's Leo."

"What can I do?"

"You sleeping?"

"No."

"Okay." There was a pause, CJ heard his take a deep breath, she knew something was coming:

"Leo?" He swallowed.

"CJ, I thought you should know, before the press get their hands on it."

"Yeah?"

"Eric Orson was delivered back to Washington about an hour ago. He's being treated in GW. Re-constructive surgery on his left shoulder."

"What?" She hissed, bile rising in her stomach, threatening her composure.

"I'll give you the details tomorrow, I just thought..."

"Is he there now?"

"Where?"

"GW?"

"Yeah, they're doing tests and scans, he's having surgery in the morning." CJ fell silent, her mind racing, fuelled by rage and anger, pure and simple.

"Thank you Leo." CJ snapped the phone shut, her mind was blank, but before she knew it, coat in hand, she was driving on into the night.

The 6ft frame of CJ Cregg swept unceremoniously into the hospital; she rode the elevator, urging it to quicken. At the sixth floor, she exited. As she stormed past the nurses' station, she laid eyes on a vaguely familiar figure. Miles looked up as he heard the typical step of a woman. His eyes widened in shock as he placed an identity to the sound.

"Where is he?" She growled, anger still being the manifest emotion. Miles raised himself quickly to his full height – she still towered menacingly over him, it would be a lie to say something in his stomach didn't betray his fear.

"He's just gone for some scans." She was fuming in his face, her cheeks burned red. As her anger-fogged mind tried to think what was going to happen next, Ron arrived, returning from a trip to the vendors with a cup of steaming coffee in each hand. He quickly dumped them on the nurses' station before closing the distance over to the pair.

"Ms Cregg!" He interrupted, she turned to him, and he felt the fire in her eyes.

"You weren't going to tell me about him coming back this time, were you?"

"Ms Cregg, please..." She cut him off:

"I want answers, but sure as hell not from you," she turned a moment to Miles, "and not from you, but from him this time!" She gestured toward the empty room.

"I think you should calm down..." Ron started, trying to soothe her.

"Calm down, Agent Butterfield!" Her arms flew into the air, her face was taut, her eyes bulging in her emotional and adrenalin fuelled state.

"Yes, calm down, damn it – the man's about to have a major operation, this stress is the last thing he needs – think about it!" CJ was seething, but she knew Ron was right. Her tone softened, her anger dissipating slowly as she realised that she wasn't sure what she'd even say to the man if she saw him. As the mist cleared, she felt sheepish.

"Can I see him at least?" Her voice was wavering, unsure. Miles, who had fallen silent during the exchange piped up:

"CJ, I'm sorry – he expressly said that he doesn't want you to see him..." Miles didn't get to finish, she had turned and bolted before he could get the last words out... "like this." He whispered in dismay, not knowing whether to run after her or let her go. He looked to Ron for support, only to receive a hard glare before seeing the back of the taller man as he went after her. Just that second, a pair of swing doors burst open and Simon's trolley came slowly into view. His heart sunk.

CJ burst through the door into the stairwell, there was no time to wait for the elevator to hide her shame and upset. Tears streamed freely down her face. She made it down the first two flights, before collapsing against the banister, sobbing deeply sat on the cold concrete of the stairs. CJ didn't hear the door being flung open, her name being called by a now all-too-familiar voice, nor the footsteps that landed Special Agent Ron Butterfield next to her.

Confusion – why was she this upset? She'd been denying her feelings, she hadn't even been thinking about Simon for a month or two...

"CJ?" Ron's voice was tender, surprisingly so.

"I only knew him five, damned minutes!" she sniffed.

"I know."

"Why do I feel like this! Why couldn't I just let him go? Now... he doesn't... oh God! What the hell was I expecting!" CJ finally looked at the man sat next to her, her tear-streaked face was ashen, she shook her head, searching his eyes for some kind of explanation – some way out.

"You didn't let Miles finish." Ron took a deep breath. "He was going to say that Simon didn't want you to see him 'like this' – do you see?" She shook her head, "He's lying in a hospital bed, CJ! He can't move, he can hardly speak... Do you have any idea how that makes a man like us feel?" CJ was silent, he was right, they were soldiers, they were men – they had a pride that surpassed the normal male's. The tears dried up, she breathed levelly again. Ron didn't know what made him do it, but he reached into his suit jacket, rummaging in a pocket. CJ watched him absently, not able to quite understand the implications and importance of two simple words... 'like this'.

The fluorescent light in the stairwell glinted briefly off the surface of the item in Ron's hand. He held it out to her.

"What's?" She questioned. Ron wasn't sure himself, although he had a suspicion – the last transaction on a credit card bill. The testimony of a young agent terrified by an emotional Simon Donovan at an airport so many months ago.

"Open it." She carefully pulled a tab of tape that had obviously been resealed many times. The tape around the edge of the packet was well worn, on one side, the once white surface had been stained a dark brown. Carefully removing the contents, she waited with baited breath as she began to unfold a piece of what could only be photo paper. The sob echoed up and down the whole height of the stairwell. A strong arm pulled her into a soft shoulder as the tears returned with extra might. She tried to catch her breath, not sure of the exact feeling – her stomach was twisting, and her heart reeling. Her own image stared up at her; she smiled and Simon pressed his lips against her cheek. Something welled up in her chest and felt like it stopped her heart for a moment. The image was worn away where the paper had been folded and unfolded time and again; the edges were crumpled and there were dirty finger prints all over it.

"He printed it at the airport before he left. Nearly burst a gasket when the nurses tried to take it off him..." Ron paused to try and let her take in what he was saying to her. "Simon asked me to keep it safe for him until he's done with surgery." Finally she looked at him, before letting her eyes slip back to the photo. Slowly, she folded it up, and placed it back in the plastic, resealing it with care. CJ held it out to him,

"Thank you." Her voice was but above a whisper, Ron reluctantly took the picture back, he nodded.

CJ got unsteadily to her feet. Ron sat still. She took a few steps down before turning. "Tell him that when CJ Cregg finds out he's here, she's gonna kick his ass." She half smiled, holding back a further outburst of tears. "You tell him that... and you tell me when – you just call me, ok?"

"I'll call you, Ms Cregg, but I think he knows the rest." She bowed her head slightly and turned, her heels getting distant as she descended further into the cool. Ron stood waiting for the door on the other end. He held the picture in his hand and tapped his foot; Simon would be back by now.

TBC-


	13. Long Day

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all. 

* * *

Chapter XIII – Long Day

Miles was standing over Simon, talking. Ron watched them for a minute or two through the open blinds. Something in Ron was jealous; he had a wife once, but he'd made a hash of that: working too hard, being emotionally out of reach. That had been the closest chance he had to a family. Ferdinand and Simon were brothers – not even 'like' brothers, they had something that went deeper than the obligatory connection that was blood. The army begets strange relationships – close ones between men that no one from the outside really understands. A wistful memory of his own wingman, his best friend, brought the pain back – the pain that had kept him distant from his wife; the realisation of how fragile life is. Matt's death was a guilt he carried every day of his life, it was the guilt that made him so good at his job – the obligation to protect, the need for some kind of redemption. Snapping out of his thoughts, he gently pressed on through the door.

Simon's eyes flicked to the man he was beginning to consider more of a friend than a superior. He saw regret written all over his bare features – the game face seemed to be dropped every time he entered the room. From under the oxygen mask, Simon offered a smile. Miles looked oddly nervous.

"They say he's ready, they're just waiting on the consultant to come in."

"That's great news."

"They can fix the bulk of it in one op." Miles had been excited and relieved at the news, despite the explanations of various plates and grafts going well over his head.

"I'm relieved! Simon, how are you feeling?" Simon slowly moved the mask from his nose and mouth:

"Sooner... the better" Ron nodded, smiling tightly.

"Well, you get some rest there – I just need to talk to Miles about something a minute?" Simon replaced the mask and nodded.

Ferdinand followed Ron out, knowing almost full well what this was going to be about. His shoulders dropped and he waited for the barrage of scolding telling him he should have handled CJ Cregg differently.

"Miles, about earlier..."

"I know, I should have..."

"No, Miles; you did exactly the right thing." Ferdinand was so shocked that he stopped still. "Yeah. I know it looked bad, but I think that was the best way – I think she understands a little now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't mention it to Simon." It was Ron's turn to be quiet. "I didn't mention it, but he's going to be mad at me for turning her away y'know?"

"But he said?"

"Yeah, he does that, he's a simple guy most of the time, just aside from when it's to do with women." Ron's brow, thinking hard for a moment.

"This still about Aimee?" Ferdinand snorted at the sound of Simon's ex-wife's name.

"I think it's safe to say it screwed him up pretty bad, I don't think he knows if he can trust it not to go wrong again – he did always fall for beautiful women." Ron nodded. He remembered Aimee, she – like CJ, could make any man melt with the right look. Yet he was still puzzled:

"So he wanted to see her?"

"Sure he did!" The taller man raised his eyebrows, his face falling slightly. "Yeah, but you were right, Ron – and y'know how I hate that, but the nurses told me 'bout the packet on his chest. They said that kind of stress is way too much for his heart to cope with right this minute. Any more before he gets a bit better could actually kill him." Miles shook his head. "So I guess I owe you an apology."

"Forget it, Miles." The shorter man nodded slowly, looking at the toes of his boots as he rocked on his heels. "We better go back in, he'll be thinking we talking 'bout him."

CJ found her way to her car. She fumbled with the keys, her sight blurred from what was beginning to be an endless stream of tears. Wrenching the door open, she slung herself into the seat and slammed shut her cocoon. Resting her head on the cold steering wheel, gripping the smooth wood tightly, she let out a whimper. Her breath made a small cloud in the cold interior.

"Oh God, how did I get like this?" She sobbed, uncaring whether anyone was truly up there. "I don't even know him, three weeks of just being there – oh God! Why? Why did I have to... fall..." She stopped herself, realising slowly that was the very reason. "If you let him die, I swear... don't let him die!" All coherent thought had left her, she wept herself dry. Her breath caught in her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut to try and regain some form of control. That sick feeling in her chest, stinging cheeks, aching heart... she slammed her palm down hard on the wheel. "Damnit I can't do this!" She exclaimed. Taking a breath, she flung the door open again. There was no hesitation with the keys, the door was locked behind her and her stride was nothing short of confident.

The surgeon, Professor Khan, had finally come on duty – he was a young looking fellow for his title and qualifications. Clearly and concisely, he explained to an apprehensive congregation the details of mending a shattered scapula, with the various plates and pins. Furthermore, the removal of left over shards of bone and metal that remained in the chest cavity, and the repair to his diaphragm to improve his breathing. Two teams would go to work at once, and while every operation carries risks, the Professor explained, and this was far from elementary. Ron and Ferdinand nodded numbly at the details, while Simon's eyes never left Kahn's kind face. The pep-talk was just winding up, the nurses were about to call the anaesthetist when the door to the private room burst open.

All eyes fell on the intruder. Ron blinked hard and Ferdinand gulped air. Kahn looked around for assurance that he shouldn't yell for security to remove the pale looking woman, who looked quite frankly, dangerous with her slightly dishevelled hair and bloodshot eyes.

"Professor, if you could put the anaesthetist on hold for just a couple of minutes? I think we ought to give them some time." Miles spoke up.

"Of course, Mr Orson – are you ok with this?" The surgeon looked down into the stunned face of his patient, who turned his head slowly, waiting for the last possible second to take his eyes from her. Simon nodded affirmatively. The room emptied, CJ bowed her head, not looking at them as they passed.

CJ closed the door softly, holding her position facing the solid wood for a moment, trying to get herself together, feeling the cold metal of the handle in her hand, telling herself this was really happening. After a deep breath, she took the plunge. The few strides over to the cot seemed like a marathon. As she settled on her feet, Simon, although with seemingly great effort, brushed the mask away from his face. He blinked profusely, not believing – after he asked his friends not to say any – his thoughts were cut short:

"Hi... uh... I just... look – I really don't care for your soldier's pride right now; I don't even care how you look, and if you don't want to see me, it's just too bad!" She waited for a response, hand firmly on her hips. CJ got nothing more than a stare from a pair of blue eyes thick with hurt, bewilderment and something she dared not place. Frustrated at him, she continued, letting a hand loose to illustrate her words in gestures: "Because if you think... IF you think that I can just sit out there in my car and not..." She bit back the tears, looking skywards briefly for strength and air, letting her hand fall; "and not CARE, then you're... you're wrong! And... well then you're a damn IDIOT, Simon Donovan!" Her eyes fell back to his. They were pools of liquid sorrow.

Simon mouthed something to her, the little force that was his voice failed him. In a trance, she was drawn towards him, trying desperately to hear what he had to say. As she neared him, so focused were her eyes on his, that she failed to notice the tanned hand making a painfully slow journey to her cheek. She flinched at his touch, but she did not move. His rough thumb lightly swept across her soft skin. Through the mist of the searing pain, he felt a sensation so fragile he barely dared to persist in the motion. As Simon's thumb came to rest for a second on her bridge, the memory of their night in New York flooded back. The journey to the end of her nose seemed to take forever; she closed her eyes, letting herself go back to that place: back into his arms, basking naked in the comforting warmth of the afterglow... the brief moment of pressure she was expecting on the tip of her nose came, his hand lingered for only a second, before drawing away rather too quickly. Her eyes flicked open at the loss of his touch.

"I'm... sorry." He gasped, his eyes too sad for words. As hers flooded, she shook her head slowly and lightly, not able to speak at all. The weight of the words were too much, two simple words completely floored her. She reached out a hand to touch him, her feather-light fingertips on his forehead for only a second as a sharp knock on the door made her jump away.

"Sorry to disturb, but we really need to get going."

"Sure." CJ turned and replied politely to the nurse, smiling – almost. The room became crowded around them, but their eyes didn't lose contact. There were no words, just a connection that they had both stubbornly refused to forget.

The anaesthetist manned the cot on the opposite side to CJ – he spoke but didn't really have his patient's attention:

"Mr Orson, I'll count to ten, count with me... ten," his eyes still with hers, "nine," the cold liquid ran through his arm, "eight," she was his focus, he didn't want to leave her again – she smiled weakly, folding her arms across herself; "seven," losing grip on her, his focus began to wane, "six," she was slipping from his grasp... "fi..."

"Okay, he's out." Kahn's voice was soft but urgent. He glanced over to the tall woman on the other side of the cot. Her eyes had not yet left the patient. Gracefully, but quickly, he walked around to her. Laying a careful hand on her arm, his words were only for her to hear: "ma'am?" Her eyes were fixed, her body frozen. "Ma'am, we have to take Eric to theatre now... we're doing our best for him – and the best thing now is to get him on his way, ok?" She nodded weakly, closing her eyes. The surgeon took his cue, "Ok, let theatre know we're on our way."

Simon was wheeled out of the room. CJ stood rooted to the spot, opening her eyes only when she knew he was gone. Her eyes were glassy and staring. Ron and Ferdinand looked at one another, Ron read it in the detective's eyes, he was the right one to do this.

The room was suddenly very empty, and CJ didn't even notice the presence of the short New Yorker. There were no tears this time, there was just nothing. 'I'm sorry' he had said. He was sorry. Sometimes, undeniably, it is the hardest word to say; but sometimes it's even harder to hear it.

"I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you." It got her attention – she managed to pluck herself from wherever she was to focus on Ferdinand's warm brown eyes. "I've known him a long time, and there have been women – even women he was close to. But you know, he only shared that gesture with one of them, and that was his Mom; and she taught it to him. I don't know if you're even listening to me right now – and I wouldn't blame you if you aren't. I have to know I told you this though, CJ – I have to know that I told you he's not taking you for a ride, he doesn't expect anything from you, he's come to expect nothing short of being alone in this life. It's where he's been for far too long now." He took a deep breath as she continued to look right through him. "All I'm askin' you CJ, is that you realise he's been through hell too – he's got a big heart, but he's got scars that still ain't healed." He looked hard at her, trying to catch her eye, even though he was the target of her stare. "CJ?" She nodded her head, her eyes unmoving, unblinking. The detective faded from her peripheral view and left the room quietly, letting Ron slide past him.

Moving up to her shoulder, Ron spoke quietly, but directly into her right ear:

"CJ, they need you at the White House, Leo McGary just called, he thought you might be here." She nodded and turned past him, her eyes fixed on some point on the horizon. The lift doors closed behind her. It was 6:30 AM.

While monitors bleeped, and a respirator hummed, Professor Kahn ordered the first incision.

TBC-


	14. Men Like Us

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all. 

* * *

Chapter XIV – Men Like Us

Leaving the hospital in a complete daze, CJ forced a hold on herself. Starting the engine of her Mustang, she felt for the first time in a long while that she had actually done the right thing. Her smile soon faded though: it was hard to push the sight of his fragile body out of her mind. The contrast of how he had once felt against her: so firm, so vital... it made her feel ridiculously vulnerable. He had been her protector – he had made talking about her Dad alright, and now she had barely dared to touch his darkened skin, for fear of breaking him – for fear of losing him. So much had changed, the reality of the months counting past a year was finally sinking in.

The thing that bothered her most, though, was his apology: he was sorry. Sorry for what though, her mind asked? Sorry for leaving her, for trying to shut her out now – or was it something more? Was he trying to let her down slowly as he came back for a new life? Her thoughts began to run away with her: would he even stay? With the engine running idle, she just sat there. Swallowing hard, she managed to choke out the breath she had been unconsciously holding. His eyes had been heavy with grief, and with a sadness that ran deeper than she allowed herself to venture. CJ admitted, she might be in love with a man she hardly knew – yet her mind asked if it was really that, or just the promise of what he could be?

The Press Secretary in her overrode her emotions and pushed the thoughts away to the back of her mind. She had to go to work. Staff at 7. Her hand put the car in drive and muscle memory took over. For now, he'd just have to watch her tail-lights.

The first sensation he felt was that his throat was dry. Not painful; nothing was painful, just dry. It was hard to focus. The ceiling was white. Simon let his eyelids collapse over his tired eyes once more. There was a familiar voice not so long after, but he chose to stay in his dark world, the longest sleep he recalls having – yet not the most peaceful. In sleeping, Simon returned to a place far away.

Leaning against the chain-link fence that ran the perimeter of the camp, he had sighed. Nothing but desert lay out to the east. Moonlight splashed across the cold plain, illuminating it in the dark of night. It could have easily been the sea. The wind made waves of the sand, their fine crest caught in the milky wash of light. His fingers gripped the metal wire tight, his eyes began to grow dry. Simon did not want to blink, for his mirage might fade. CJ was dancing: a swirl of sand mimicked the movement of a fine material that moved with her; the wind took the lead and his heart did the rest. She smiles and laughs, her body moving majestically in the blues and greys of the night. Simon strains to get closer to this creature that he loves. He hears the sound of the blues that bound them together in the 'Blue Lagoon'. His heart melts and he feels moisture on his cheeks as she beckons to him. The metal fence cruelly holds him back. Her silky smooth hand gestures to him again, before disappearing as a mere wisp in the lightness of the breeze. Just an illusion. Just a dream.

The soft feeling of a cotton swab on his cheek brings him out of his sleep. Moist eyes open slowly to the kind face of an ITU nurse. She smiles down at him.

"Hello, there Mr Orson." Orson? The nightmare goes on, he looks past her for someone else. "Are you in any pain, sir?" She asks, mopping up the last of his tears. As he brings his attention back to her.

"No." Is the raspy reply. "Water?" She obliges, placing a straw between his lips and instructing him to try not to move or speak. Sipping the water, his tongue is finally freed of the sides of his teeth. The nurse's touch is always soft.

"You'll be moved back to your own room in an hour, we need to see how you do, then put you in plaster." He grunts his acceptance of the information before letting himself fall back into the abyss.

Something hard was weighing him down. There was pressure on his torso. In the darkness, he sees white begin to fill with red. He hears more gunshots, feels more weight; panic has long since passed, but the heat of the pain is rife. The bodies of the men he had commanded form a human shield over him. So was the Ephari way. The leader was to be protected at all costs. He knew their families would be proud, for they died in honour. They died to save the American, who had been endorsed by Jeremiah ben-Kurah as their leader. For over a year he had trained these men. He had been with them everyday. They were all bound by their love for the man that was held high above them, Jeremiah, the one who lived. Despite their love, it was through the American that they found true belief in the one thing that made the future President different – he was bound to them by traditional honour, something that many had forgotten the value of. Honour. It was what they had fought for, yet as the weight of all their lives lay over his body, it seemed a pitiful dream. It was then that he thought of her. He would never see CJ Cregg again. For everything that he had achieved in this foreign land, he would never be able to say he was sorry. He would die with the guilt of forsaking his love. As darkness pooled into his vision, Simon Donovan realised he was disappointed. Life could have been more. Death should have been sweeter.

"Is he alright?" Ron asked the Professor as they watched the patient murmuring under the plaster cast.

"Yes. He will be. We've got the cast on to restrict his movement in order to let the shoulder set, usually we'd just use a splint, but he's got four plates holding his scapula together, which is quite above average." Ron nods thoughtfully.

"He seems pretty agitated."

"Yeah, sometimes the anaesthetic leads to a level of unconsciousness similar to when we dream. I don't want to sedate him any further for the moment though. Best to get him awake."

"Sure." The surgeon made his last check of Eric Orson's notes and promised to be back later. Ron sighed and slumped into the chair at Simon's bedside as the man left. His shift had ended a half hour back. It was 10 PM.

"Go home." The familiar words hardly registered with CJ as she sat reading from a file. "CJ?"

"Yeah?" She snapped out of her report. Leo leant against her door jamb. He looked as tired as she felt.

"Go home, CJ. You and I both know that report can stay on your desk till morning." She sighed. He was right.

"Yeah, I know, Leo."

"You gonna go then?"

"Sure..." She looked down, closing the file with a half smile. "I'm just not sure I want to." The honesty shook Leo. He knew the root cause immediately:

"Reading a report won't change anything."

"I know."

"So go home, CJ... get some sleep. Rest. Go see him tomorrow."

"He doesn't want to see me."

"What?" Leo entered the office, quietly closing the door, not that there was anyone around to hear. He paced softly over to her desk.

"Not like he is." She sighed, waving a hand, trying to control herself, then resigning to tell Leo the whole truth. "But I went in anyway, you know me... and his eyes – Leo, you were a soldier – men like that..." The words ceased to come to her.

"Men like us, CJ..." Leo sucked in a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest. "...get used to the idea we're stronger than the rest..." He perched on the edge of her desk, releasing his arms and wringing his hands together. "I visited a friend in a field hospital once. He'd lost his legs... and CJ, he didn't look at me, not once. I went back everyday for a week, I mean the guy was my wingman when we trained. Anyway, after a while, I managed to find out what happened to him. He'd just gone off home to his young wife and brought up three kids while she worked. He wouldn't look at me because it changed who he was. He was a soldier then he couldn't do that any more."

"Will Simon ever be able to protect people again?" Her voice was timid, her mind considering a part of the future she hadn't considered.

"I can't answer that CJ, but you know... he's lucky. His profession doesn't require him to be employed." He let it hang in the air for a second, CJ looked questioningly at him: "Every brother, CJ, every father, everyone that ever loves..." she softly cut him off:

"I don't know what I want, but I know that if Ron had phoned with different news about the operation..." she shook her head slowly, biting her lip, "I'd have been lost." Leo had ceased being her boss when he initiated this conversation, and now seeing her so raw, he got up off the desk and went to her; he did what only a Father knows to do, protect her. Taking CJ in is arms, he hushed her like he had Mallory when she was a kid. There were no tears, the anguish ran deeper than that.

But, Leo thought: Men like us, we still have heart.

"You're still here?" Simon questioned his best friend as he woke; Miles, by rights should have been back on duty in New York by now.

"Yeah, I am. Took a week of my holiday. Jodie was pissed at first, y'know how she likes to go to Italy, but when I told her the whole story, what happened, she near got on a plane right that second." Simon was touched; even though he considered them family, to have their love even after taking off like that for a year was a real blessing.

"She's a good woman." Talking was getting so much easier now he could breath without such an effort.

"Yeah, she is. But I don't care how old they are – someone responsible gotta keep their eye on them kids of mine. Speakin' of the rabble, they might all come the weekend though, see their Uncle... 'course, only if you're up for it?"

"Yeah." His eyes filled with tears. "Yeah..." He reiterated. The men stayed silent for a moment; Simon composed himself. Ferdinand was reminded in that instant how much he'd missed his friend, not just the past year, but since they had parted in Chicago. Something inside him wished one day Simon would leave Washington and the Secret Service – perhaps selfishly, he hoped he would come to the NYPD and maybe even live in the same neighbourhood again.

"Pete misses you." Simon's heart swelled. Ferdinand's eldest would be eighteen now, his little sister Tori, twelve. Riding on Uncle Simon's shoulders had one of Pete's favourite treats as he was a good foot taller than the boy's father. Every year, Simon had taken Pete and Ferdinand to watch the Chicago Bears – the team the friends had been to see every week, working as stadium security during their police days. While Jodie had taken Tori to ballet lessons, the men had always slipped tiny Pete in with them to sit with the players who had loved their little mascot. Tori was a sucker for her Uncle too, but she was a Daddy's girl at heart. If Ferdinand and Simon had been lesser friends, maybe the fact that Pete was perhaps closer to his Uncle, who he saw only periodically, than his father would have been a real issue, but somehow, it was one of the many things that just made their bond stronger.

"He still play?" Simon was, of course, talking about Football – Pete had been a promising young quarterback for his local youth team the last time Simon saw him play. Seeing the kid flourish at the game had made everyone proud; Miles had clapped his best friend on the shoulder in joy as the boys crowded round their star player at full time. It had come from Simon; when Pete was first born, he didn't have a clue what to do with a child – he only knew that his chance at a family had probably passed him by. A Chicago "Staley Bear" was the first gift to the baby Pete. Simon bought him his first football, teaching him to throw and playing with him in the yard a couple of evenings a week before the family split for New York.

"Sure he still plays, Simon! Damn, 'course he does." There was almost offence in Miles' voice – he knew how close to both their hearts this was. "Never misses a practice, never misses the Bears on the TV neither, just bought the new kit with his savings last week." The patient sighs, before chuckling lightly to himself. The throaty laugh of his friend soon fills his ears. In that moment, he felt the weight of the years he'd been away. Yeah, he decided: it was good to be home.

The days somehow passed into a week. The West Wing was a hub of anxiety, stress and hard work, the second term brought with it new problems and higher standards with loftier goals. CJ hadn't been back to the hospital. Ron called her daily, but the words she yearned for never left his lips. She had come to terms with the fact that no matter what she felt, this was on Simon's terms. She could love him from a distance for a few more days, despite them feeling longer than the months since the morning after New York.

"CJ?"

"Carol!" CJ looked up at her assistant from her desk with a large smile.

"There's a Detective Miles here from New York, no appointment..." that was as far as CJ let Carol get, before flying out of the office past her stunned aide. "CJ?"

"Yeah, take my calls, I'll be back in an hour – I'm taking lunch!" A long coat was pulled on, the tails flapping in her wake.

"It's only eleven CJ!" Carol called after her, only to get a wave of her boss' hand.

Miles kicked his heels together; he was nervous for the first time since being reunited with his best friend at Andrew's Airbase. A scruffy army issue kit bag was slung over his shoulder, in vast contrast to the character sharp suit and smartly polished boots. CJ swept past him, tapping him on the arm:

"Coffee. Let's go Colombo." Miles was about to break into the long speech he'd been going over in his mind, but 'Colombo', he had to admit, had really thrown him off. Recovering his thoughts, he strode after her, trying to keep step. He practically chased her through the street; they didn't say anything more until they were seated in the local Starbucks. Ferdinand bought two Cappuccinos to go and CJ followed obediently to a table.

"I'm going back to New York this afternoon." Miles' voice was flat, there was nothing to be read into the statement.

"O...K?" The Press Secretary raises her eyebrows in question.

"You haven't been back to the hospital." This time, his comment is curt: he knows time is short and dispenses with the pleasantries; there will be plenty of time for those conversations if – rather when, he hoped, she became a permanent part of his friend's life. Ferdinand's question caught CJ off balance, even though she saw it coming, there was nothing she could do to block the shot – and she took it right in the face.

"No. No I haven't." Miles raises his eyebrows, unsatisfied with her response. "Detective..."

"Call me Ferdinand, Freddie, Miles, jerk, whatever... this" he tapped the table between them, "ain't business." His eyes softened, they were anxious yet kind, willing her to be honest, somehow offering advice and support in their hazel warmth.

"Ferdinand, I... I..." She took a deep breath. "I want to, but I need to know he wants me there – I need to know he's ready."

"But you're OK just standing back and doing nothing for now?" He own words thrown back at her, she nodded slowly, a sardonic grin appearing on her lips.

"He told you then?"

"No, but it was hard not to hear that part."

"Ah."

"Yeah, he was pretty tight lipped about that conversation actually."

"Well, he let me go."

"I'm sorry, he what?"

"He said he was sorry and he looked at me like...

"Like what?"

"I mean, all he has to do is ask Ron, or you – and I'd come!"

"Yeah. Ask." Miles laughed to himself for a moment, when he looked up at her over the table, his eyes were darker than they had been, his face wore it's creases deeper than usual. "You honestly think he knows in his head when he's ready to see you?"

"I know he didn't want to." The man opposite her seemed to be going greyer by the minute – he leant over the table, his hands open.

"But you went in anyway." She nodded, averting her eyes from Miles' intense stare. "You think it's at all possible he wants you to do that again?" CJ shrugs, keeping her head bowed, hiding the fact that a corner of her mouth tipped up slightly. "You think maybe he's too scared to ask since you ain't gone back?" She shrugs again, it's like being coaxed round to a parent's train of thought. "You think he knows any better than you about this?" Her head flicks up:

"That's not the..."

"Sure it is!" Miles' hands fly up off the table top. "Geees! You're like a pair of kids who don't know head from tail! If y'all'd had some huge brawl I'd understand, but this..." Sigh, he ran his hand through his hair. "Look, I'm bringin' Jodie and the kids down the next weekend, he'll need a hand getting home. Doc said he'd be out on the Sunday. He's gonna be by himself till then, Ron's gotta work."

"You think I should see him?" The little man's eyebrows peaked over his wide eyes at her quiet words, he pushed back from the table:

"Hell... if you don't... gees, please just put him out of his misery, take him some grapes or something." With a click of his boots on the wood flooring, the detective was on his feet, her eyes followed him up. "He likes the juicy black ones, y'know, the ones with seeds still in them." CJ nodded slowly in bewilderment, and with that he snapped up his coffee and took off. CJ was left gasping air as she tried to think of something to say. "See ya next Saturday Ms Cregg!" He called over his shoulder. Nothing could suppress the nervous smile that was breaking over her face. It was Friday.

Saturday morning. Five AM and CJ Cregg is anxiously scanning through the papers, having already dressed for work in a regular ivory suit and red shirt, her white camisole casually makes an appearance under the last button she has fastened. Her hair wouldn't sit right today, and she's already laddered two pairs of sheer tights and given up on that one.

The sunlight rushes away, the eternal torch in the sky flicks off as night falls. Carol knocks enthusiastically on her boss' door. CJ looks up, her eyes sparkle for the first time in months and her assistant beams at her, holding out a bag of red grapes.

"They're dark, they have seeds, and they're really juicy!" CJ rises from her desk,

"You sure – they're not sour or anything?"

"No... best be safe though," Carol offers CJ a grape, they grin wildly as she tries one. They are perfect, the balance of sweet and slightly bitter, and they definitely have seeds.

"Thank you Carol."

"No problem boss." The younger woman gives a sly and curious look...

"You can go home now – we're done."

"Sure?"

"Yeah, scram!"

The hospital is quiet. Visiting hours are over. Exceptions are made. Approaching the nurses' station, CJ catches the eye of the duty nurse. Recognition flits across the face of the woman, she's in her later thirties and meets CJ with a smile.

"You must be Ms Cregg?" She comes round the station and extends a hand.

"CJ, pleased to meet you."

"Debbie... security told me you were on your way up. He's awake, insisted on watching the football despite my suggestion of sleep." CJ laughs,

"Is it OK if I go in?"

"Sure, go ahead. He's not expecting anyone though."

"I know. Is it alright to take these in?" She asks, holding up the transparent bag of grapes. Debbie laughs and waves her on with a light gesture of her hand:

"Go!"

Nerves suddenly hit CJ as her hand rests on the door. The man on the other side of the glass is propped up in the cot. His left arm and shoulder are strapped up in a system of splints and a sling. She can see the bruising from his chest receding from his collar, the green tint still visible under the tan of his skin. His eyes focus intently on a flickering screen; his right hand clenches and relaxes as his face provides a commentary on the game.

The door opening goes unnoticed. Simon slams his head back into the pillows as the Detroit Lions score against the Chicago Bears. His head lolls from side to side in disgust; it's then he notices her slight figure standing by the closed door. His breath catches in his throat and he tries to sit up, but the restrictive tug of the supportive splinting reminds him not to move that far.

Deep breath:

"I brought you grapes." She was bolt upright, still standing by the door, trying not to shift from foot to foot – her face was in shadow. Simon gasped as he recognised her. CJ took a step out of the shadow, her head tilted slightly to one side. "They're the dark red ones, with seeds... and they're really juicy." She cannot believe the speed with which she retreated into her protective professional shell; she was briefing him in the variety of grape she had in her hands. Let it go, CJ - relax.

Miles! There wasn't a single other person in the world who knew what kind of grapes he liked. Well, there were two now he reasoned. The game was almost instantly forgotten, his caged sport rage dissipated with the exhalation of that breath he was holding.

"I... how..." No. He paused, looking at her soft features that had morphed into a gentle yet tentative smile. "Thank you." Simon's face lit up, and at that she slowly came over to him, resting the grapes on the bed-table that extended over his legs.

Silence.

CJ looked down, and Simon's eyes flicked back to the game... then they both laughed. They laughed at each other, mocking the awkward teenagers they had been reduced to.

"Hi." He offered, and still giggling, she managed to look at him. He didn't look nearly as fragile any more. His eyes were more balanced, beside the pain, he carried that life she had fallen for the day he breezed into her life.

"Can I see you now?"

"No, I don't think so." Although his eyes betrayed his nerves at the blatant cheekiness of the comment, the grin on his face would have put Barbie to shame. CJ tried her best to look shocked and outraged, pouting and stating simply:

"In that case, I'll be taking these..." she reached out for the grapes, but before she got a decent hold, her hand was enveloped in a warmth she had longed to feel. Their smiles didn't fade as their eyes were drawn to their physical connection. Slowly, his thumb swept over her knuckles, and in a moment, their fingers were interlaced.

"He didn't tell you then?"

"What?" CJ was on the verge of panic.

"That I'm really protective... over grapes." She was lost for a clever comeback, they were joined by their right hands and it was unbelievable. He drew her toward him, she willingly shuffled closer. Standing right next to the cot now, CJ let their hands rest on the mattress. Plucking a grape from the bunch, she popped the fruit into her mouth. Simon squeezed her hand.

"Hey!" CJ laughed mockingly at his squeal, squeezing his hand back playfully...

"Mmmm, they're good!"

"CJ!"

"Really juicy!"

"CJ please!"  
"Yeah, you should definitely try one!" She goaded, reaching for another one, keeping a firm grip on his hand. Glancing down at the splinting, she was glad there was something holding him together, before he hurt himself.

"Cee-" The grape in his mouth silenced his protests and his body relaxed. Simon hadn't tasted a grape since his fiftieth birthday celebration with Miles. They had been a surprise part of the evening – while Simon knew that he loved grapes, it never really occurred to him to buy them. His best friend knew him just too well. The juice burst out into his mouth, and his eyelids squeezed together, concentrating all his senses on the taste. The soft flesh slid smoothly down his throat; he savoured the skin, grinding it between his teeth, revelling in the feeling of the rich tannins on his tongue.

TBC-


	15. Sour Grapes

** A/N**: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all.

**A/N 2**: Thanks go to my beta, _Dee8_ for this chapter, she helped me so much in getting it right. Thank you Dee, you're a legend.

* * *

Chapter XV – Sour Grapes

Simon opened his eyes. The taste of the grape lingered in his mouth. He smiled. CJ felt a warmth in her she hadn't for a long time. She still wouldn't mind seeing that smile more.

The flirtatious atmosphere was soon burnt away by the intensity of their gaze. The moments before that had been harmless fun, broke the ice, but now they found themselves out of their depths again in a sea where even the horizon was nowhere to be seen.

Smiles faded. A serious conversation they both were dreading hung in the air between them. There were so many questions, and answers that neither one was sure they wanted to hear. Suddenly, Simon found himself very aware of her hand in his, and how he never wanted to let go. At the same time, he felt like he didn't deserve it, like he had overstepped a line somewhere. His feelings began to heighten his discomfort, he had been ignoring the slight pain in his chest, bone-headedly refusing to be denied the exhilaration of watching his first football match in far too long. It was his first step into something resembling normal. Normal. His mind scoffed at the word, it wasn't something he had even had in his vocabulary since, well since a night in New York two May's ago; now was no exception. Then she had arrived. She had arrived with grapes. How something as simple as that could take your mind from your body completely, he found utterly remarkable. As these thoughts ran wild in his mind, the fact that neither one of them were speaking didn't even occur to him. However, in the same silence, CJ felt her stomach migrate to her shoes, and her bravery fade into something more fragile than mere nervousness.

Awkwardness struck again. They remained there together in silence, neither willing to let go. Simon let the grip between their fingers loosen, but CJ did nothing to bring the intensity of their touch back. Suddenly, there was a rush of noise from the TV as the Bears scored, levelling the points. Simon's eyes snapped away to the screen, welcoming the point of distraction. A smile of relief washed over is features. He took an elated breath, realising as he exhaled that it used to be easier.

"Was that your team?" CJ enquired, turning to the TV; the grasp between their hands loosened further, to the point where her fingertips were just softly resting just above his knuckles, his hand flat on the bed. Her eyes fell down to his bruised skin; her fingers followed her eyes gently over the old grazes, this delicacy caused Simon's breath to catch as he was about to speak.

"Yeah... uh... the Chicago Bears – from when Miles and I were living there, we used to do security, watch the game for free." As if startled by her own caress on his hand, CJ's eyes jerked up to meet his, drawing her hand slowly back to the edge of the cot. It wasn't just his hand that felt instantly cold without her touch.

"That job sure had some perks." She commented, Simon nodded slowly.

"Yeah..." He found himself catching a shallow breath, "I've been lucky with job perks."

"Yeah?"

"Sure – I got to see the world with the Rangers..." his speech was interrupted to gather this breath; "I got to go to an NFL match every week, and... protecting people, well you get to meet... good people." His eyes sparkled with a deep rooted pain. It wasn't something she expected to accompany that comment. It stunted her ability to think or speak, instead, she did all she knew to do: nod and smile while your stomach flips. A whole separate conversation ran its way through Simon's head in that instant. He told her how being assigned to head her detail had been better than the most majestic desert sunset, or indeed, twelve seasons of Bears games. A fire burned up inside him; oh how he wanted to tell her everything, every last dream and mirage – his last thoughts at death's door. He desperately wanted to give her reason to touch him again.

"So when are you getting out of here?" CJ blurted, trying to change the subject and escape the silence that had descended once again. As soon as she had spoken the words, her mind checked in and she felt ambushed by her own voice. It shook Simon from his burning desire to spell his feelings out, bringing his crashing back to the reality of a hospital bed. His face grew darker.

"Professor Kahn says a week tomorrow."

"That's great!"

"Yeah."

"You... you don't sound convinced." Concern took over her tone.

"No. Yeah... I'm fine." He smiled weakly; he was far from fine. Leaving hospital would be OK, being home would be hard. Facing up to his future would be down right impossible. The truth, he knew would be betrayed in his eyes: he kept them hidden from her, bowing his head. Something welled up inside CJ as he dealt her those words, her hand snaked back over his. Simon squeezed his eyes shut, building a barricade against the tears he felt stinging his eyes. Her touch bothered him, he took a sharp breath against his will, and it hurt.

"Are you sure?" Her words are so soft he barely hears them; his senses are screaming at the feeling of her hand in his, her thumb rests softly on his first knuckle. CJ's heart begins to break as his head slowly shakes first to the left, and then to the right. "Simon?" Her grip intensifies, as does the nod of his head.

Suddenly, he pulls his hand from hers, running his fingers roughly through his hair and down his face, before looking up at her. What she sees isn't the anguish she was prepared for. His eyes burn cold with anger. "Don't!" he growls. Bewilderment becomes her. "Why are you here!" His voice holds all the fear, all the despair he held in when the Professor had good as laid down his sentence: significant nerve damage – no guarantee of recovery. The mandatory three years 'rehabilitation' would take him closer to Law Enforcement retirement age. Even if he could work again... Kahn's kindly voiced words hung heavy over his heart: "...there is a chance you won't regain full use..." The talk of a new nerve repair treatment and extensive physiotherapy had faded in the ex-Ranger's ears, his thoughts choked up with the realisation his life was being taken from him; he felt worse in that moment than he did as he had laid dying in a pool of blood and Ephari dust.

"I... Simon, I came to see you!" Her voice is barely a whisper, but it snaps his attention back to her, back to reality. His chest hurts, stabbing pains cross his back. She practically squeaks as their eyes meet, terrified by the look in his eyes. He continues to shake his head, pointing his finger at her, and raising his voice to shout:

"Don't look at me like that!"

"Like what?" Still thick with fear and confusion, CJ's voice wavers.

"With that pity! That tone! Holding my God-damned hand won't fix this!" Suddenly she understands as his hand gestures to his shoulder with all the fury he has in him. Rage engulfs her heart as he collapses back onto the pillows, breathing angrily hard, clutching his hand to his chest as if it might ease his pain.

"My pity! Is that what you think this is!" She takes a breath, he looks hatefully at her, his face growing pale, his eyes red. "Is that all you think this is!" She reiterates.

"Well..." He starts finding it hard to breathe it takes all of his rage to keep shouting at her, "what the hell else would it be!" The volume and spite of his voice are like a sucker punch to the face. Simon long since lost his sense of judgement, rationality – he was hurting in so many different ways, he caved in. CJ stood, aghast. She began backing away. "I don't..." He catches his breath, closing his eyes as he's hit by an intense pain engulfing the left side of his chest, "...need your pity," he adds, squeezing the words out against his better judgement, urging her away. Tears over hers block the anger from his eyes.

"You never had it." Looking back at him with sorrowful eyes, CJ managed crystal clear clarity in her voice before she turned and fled the burning wreckage.

The tears careen down her face as she stabs at the elevator call button, missing twice before it illuminated. "Damn you Simon Donovan... damn you... Simon!" She feels imprisoned in her own personal hell. In her head, she is screaming and it feels like her world might explode. Thunder crashes as the lift doors open, she doesn't hesitate for a second before entering and willing the doors shut behind her.

In his swelling rage of emotion, Simon thought for a second that the physical pain wasn't real. Subconsciously, his good hand began towards the call button lying at his side. If not sympathy, then what else? Why else? His eyes darted wildly around the room as the realisation came to him that maybe she wanted to. The button was now in his hand. Shaking, he pressed it twice. He had seen the softness in her eyes before. CJ Cregg had looked at him like that in New York. She had looked at him like that in her hotel room: as she placed her hands on his holster, seeking permission to break that last barrier between them. That night, the woman had been asking him plain and easy to let her in. His eyes closed over the pain in his chest and back as he attempted shortened breaths, his pulse was thumping quickly in his ears. Oh, God what had he done?

The flashing red light on the room panel followed by the bleep that denoted an emergency call started Debbie running towards Eric Orson's room. Her heart skipped a few beats faster. His visitor was gone and he was breathing in shallow, fast breaths. Hitting the crash button on the wall above his head, a doctor was paged and on his way. The colour was draining slowly from her patient's face, his chest seemed not to rise on the left.

Rationality began to resurface. He knew this feeling, this suffocation. Simon's eyes were wide open and fixed in panic. He'd pushed her away. Pain. How could he be so selfish? So stupid? His chest. She was all he had wanted. That crushing feeling, he can't breathe. Oh God, CJ I'm sorry.

The young doctor arrived promptly, breezing past into the room where the nurse had begun the treatment. He appeared in a flash of white coat, a stethoscope running wild around his neck. O'Riley acted swiftly; listening to the patient's chest for only a second, he heard all he needed to realise his lung was partially collapsed. The ensuing conversation was short and to the point. It had been in the patient's notes that this was a likely complication. Debbie had already prepared the necessary trolley; Eric was gasping, groaning slightly: half-sitting against the incline of the cot. The young doctor spoke quickly and fearlessly:

"Mr Orson, you are experiencing a pneumothorax, your lung's collapsed and there's air in your chest cavity. I'm going to insert a tube into your chest, I'll apply some local anaesthesia, but you'll feel some pressure and discomfort." Simon heard the words through his guilt-driven, oxygen starved panic. Just. "Here we go," the anaesthetic was efficiently injected into the area. "I need you to raise your arms, just while I insert the tube. Debbie's going to move your left arm for you, on three: one... two... three!" The nurse gently moved Simon's injured arm upwards. Pain from his shoulder caused Simon to squeeze his eyes shut. O'Riley took up a fresh scalpel. "I'm going in... on the left... 3rd intercostal space..." The patient makes some kind of groan in pain, but the tube is in place; there is a brief hiss of air before spatters of a deep crimson liquid follow. Debbie returns his arm gently back into the sling.

CJ rides the elevator down only three floors before cage stops and the doors open to admit another passenger. The man looks like he might have just died. His face is ashen, and his eyes are hidden under hooded lids. CJ looks down, feeling awkward. The fluorescent light catches on something shiny in the man's hands. His fingers play over a gold ring: she quickly realises it is a wedding band, thinner than the one he himself wears. As his hand closes around the small token of precious metal, her eyes wander up to his. He smiles weakly, his bottom lip quivering as he resists breaking down; the elevator comes to a stop. The doors open to reveal a very quiet, empty and sorrowful canteen. CJ suddenly feels compelled to walk out after him. One step out, and he turns to her.

"You OK?" He asks. There is a genuine tone of concern in his voice. "I mean do you want a coffee or something?" CJ nods her head, the kindness from this obviously bereaved stranger is too precious to refuse. She wants to help him, at first she supposes that she feels pity, but realises that in fact it isn't that at all. She feels empathy. The two sit down, but neither of them touch their drinks. Neither one of them speaks. Just sitting there seems to be enough. CJ wrings her hands together.

"We were only just married." his words hang in the air between them. "Life is so short." His splintered monologue is too sad, too sad for a man who must have been ten years younger than her. His eyes flick up to her and he doesn't need to tell her that his wife is dead upstairs. He doesn't need to ask why she's been crying, his eyes say it all, and she wants to tell him, but at the same time feels a tremendous guilt; Simon wasn't dead like his wife was. She and Simon weren't married like they were: they hadn't ever told one another 'I love you'. She felt like a fraud.

"He's... he's not dead." She sniffed, unable to look the stranger in his eyes. "He's... he's just..." She couldn't finish. What was he? Hurt? Crippled? Or was the pain about her, Simon Donovan had just broken her heart. Again. The man opposite her smiled. CJ wiped away a loose tear, trying not to cry.

"It's OK," somehow the man's words were comforting, perhaps he knew too that someone didn't have to be dead for you to lose them. "It's OK."

Sealing the tube against the patient's skin, the young doctor sighs. "That should do for now, but we'll need a scan." He silently observes his work, watching Eric's chest move almost equally. "The nurse says you were agitated some?" Simon made no response, he was cold and shaken. "We'll have you booked in."

Simon had defied his body once again, yet he didn't feel victorious, he felt like dirt, awful and empty inside. It had been a long time since he'd been like this: alone and hurting, cold and shivering, and this time there was no option of hard liquor to ease the pain. "See you upstairs, Mr Orson." The kid doctor left, explaining he had to go and attend another, leaving the patient alone with the nurse, Debbie.

Carefully, she helped him get a little more comfortable, ensuring the fit of the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. As Simon's head rested back on the pillows, he felt exhausted, but his eyes remained on hers.

"Mr Orson... your left lung collapsed. We've re-inflated it. Dr O'Riley wants you to go for a scan though, we need to check it out." His eyes remained fixed on her face, they were filled with fear and sorrow. "You're OK now... Eric?" Hearing that name, his eyes glazed over with tears. Blinking them out of his crystal blue eyes, he finally looked away from her. He was so ashamed of himself for taking his anger out on the only person in the world he really wanted at his side now, that crying in front of a stranger now seemed no big issue. She needed to calm her patient down, but as soon as she touched his good arm, his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clenched harder.

"You should go back to him." The stranger spoke in a calm, measured tone, even though on his face he still wore his grief like a veil over his features.

"I... can't." CJ admits. "He doesn't... want me there."

"If you didn't love him you'd have never sat down with me." She looked up at him, and through his own painful sadness, he smiled at her. "If you didn't think you should go back up there, you'd have carried on down to your floor." It felt like God had sent her an angel, this man had lost seemingly all there was to lose, yet there he was, encouraging her, telling her through what strength, she didn't know, that everything would be alright.

"I... thank you. Thank you so much." That was all CJ could muster in words, but the stranger knew. He knew something good had come of his sorrow, and that – that made everything alright.

The elevator doors opened, CJ walked out, determined not to let Simon's anger get the better of her. Her steps were halted by the sight she saw. Simon was being wheeled away from her, down the corridor. His face was ashen, he wore an oxygen mask... his chest was bare with a tube... oh God! The nurse recognised her immediately, and left her patient's side, letting the porters keep the cot moving. Raising her hand to calm the Press Secretary:

"Ms Cregg?" Debbie started.

"What... what happened?" CJ held her voice together, gesturing to Simon.

"Mr Orson suffered a pneumothorax,"

"Is that?"

"It's when..."

"I mean, is he OK?"

"Ms Cregg, his left lung collapsed, we have re-inflated it, he's just going for a scan to make sure." The taller woman looked over the nurse's head, her eyes fixed on the shape of the man not so far away.

"He shouldn't see anyone right now, it was his outburst that probably caused a rupture, his lung was originally damaged by his trauma. He is stable now, but he's by no means a well man." CJ nodded. He had been raising his voice at her. Look at him now. Guilt rose inside her. "I'm taking him up now, it should take about a half hour." Swallowing her feeling of guilt sickness, CJ began walking past the nurse.

"Ms Cregg, I can't allow you to..." CJ silenced the nurse with one flash of her eyes. "Ms Cregg, we can't afford for him to be agitated!" CJ strode off after Simon, "Please!" Debbie called, jogging to keep up, on the verge of physically stopping the woman.

The porters had stopped the cot, waiting for the elevator to arrive. CJ stopped as she got within a foot of the cot-side. Simon was pale, his skin was grey, even under the tint of his tan – and especially against the darkness of the bruising that crept out from underneath the splinting.

Keeping that last bit of distance, she stayed out of range, away from any more hurt. It broke his heart to see her stand so weakly, her arms wrapped over her chest, keeping herself from him. She hadn't been keen on his presence when he was protecting her, but she never retreated like this, she had been lively and feisty, in his face. All the fear of being stalked seemed to have been channelled into giving him a hard time, fighting him was her way of defending herself from the threat to her independence. Now, though, there was no fight: all she did was hug her arms over her slight frame. He wanted desperately to utter a word; just one, but found that physically, he couldn't.

For a moment, CJ refused still to look at his eyes, impulse had got her this far, but her bravery wavered. One glance at those eyes of his could break her; one look at them would stop her from ever walking away. Simon's cheek looked rough with grey stubble, the dark beard around his chin seemed out of place, she thought. His hair was still jet black, a flat half an inch in length all round: no grey had appeared yet. His darkened features would have made him look ten years younger, but the pain and anguish he wore aged him. The elevator arrived, the porters didn't wait for her before moving him on into the fluorescence. Debbie gently washed past CJ.

"We'll be back." She comforted, looking at the strong woman, urging her to stay. This wasn't the time for confrontation or talk. Simon had long closed his eyes to the world, and didn't see the nod of acceptance made by the graceful head of the woman he loved.

He could still go home on schedule, five more days of rest. He didn't know whether to be relieved or not. It would be good to be home. Miles and the family would make it easier to call his condo home. He was dreading five o'clock on Sunday when they would leave.

Back in his side room, Simon looked longingly at the black screen of the TV. He wondered how the Bears were doing. Maybe the game had finished already. Maybe it wasn't. He decided he didn't really care. What matter was a football match when the rest of his life was in ruin? He was damaged goods, no use to anyone. CJ had left. Miles was in New York. Ron was working. Ron was working. Ron was doing something he'd never do again. Simon looked at his splinted arm. He was bound up in some system of strapping. The support was like a straitjacket. He was prisoner to his future. The relief he'd felt, waking alive in Ephar had long since faded. The joy he had felt in the ambulance when he saw Miles and Anthony was gone. The memory of the taste of grape on his tongue would come back to him one day. The touch of her skin to his, however, would not. Sleep was the best retreat he had.

How much later, Simon didn't know, but he woke. There was something different about the room. He felt the presence of a nurse or doctor. No, not that. Someone was sitting in the chair next to his bed. He struggled to turn his head, feeling terribly fatigued. He couldn't believe his eyes. CJ smiled nervously. He attempted to do the same. It seemed like suddenly she was at his bedside, looking down into his eyes. She didn't hold back. Catching an eyeful of whatever he wanted to throw at her couldn't have made her leave, not his time.

"Sorry." He tried to gasp, it ended up being nothing more than a movement of his lips under the oxygen mask. "I'm..." He was forcing his voice out, after pushing his mask partially from his face. Could he bring himself to say it? Risk everything that he was, to himself, and to her. She came closer, half trying to hush him, knowing the cause of his prior collapse, yet selfishly trying to catch his words: "scared." As the word managed to slip from his lips, Simon squeezed his eyes shut at the sound. He was afraid that she would see that his vulnerability ran right through every fibre of him. Terrified she would lose any glimmer of faith she still had in him, and not see him for the man he was: the man he had been.

There was only one time in his life he'd had a harder time holding back the tears; he too had been in CJ's position: leaning down over a patient lying in a hospital bed, tenderly wanting to comfort them from something you can't change. As her lips pressed gently against his forehead, he realised that it was just as hard receiving that kind of kiss as it had been giving. Yet CJ's lingered long enough to prepare his for her whispered words:

"I know." She spoke over and above her own fears; after coming to realise that it was her turn to be the strong one. There was nothing to despair about Simon lying there, he was alive. Her fingers traced their way down his cheek, surprised at the relatively soft feel of the hair – her touch soothed him, reassured him, as his eyes opened to reveal the anguish she was now ready to bear. As she replaced the mask, CJ's strong smile of comfort chased his tears away, her hand grasping his, stilled his anxious breaths.

After a minute or so, he decided he wanted to try and talk again. His muffled murmurs made her lift the mask away.

"Simon?"

"Won't... heal."He gasped, his eyes betraying the strain this was putting on him. There were no grounds she could deny him on: she hadn't heard what the doctors had told him, but something in her hoped deeply that he only heard the worst case scenario.

"It'll get better than it is, though Simon... is that what this is about?" He blinked, acknowledging it weakly, ashamedly looking away from her. CJ's soft touch on his jaw brought his face back to hers. Everything in her expression was comfort, support, and unrelenting strength.

"Idiot." He whispered. The soft hand on his face lingered before slipping away:

"Yes."

"Didn't... mean..." seeing it in his face, she knew what he was speaking of. She cut him off:

"No, you did." Simon couldn't believe his ears, until she continued: "But so did I. Simon, I don't pity you." He smiled, conceding that she was right. "Good then." She smiled, placing the mask back, then picking his hand up in both of hers. "Friends?" He didn't need to say anything, the squeeze of his hand and the utter joy on his face did quite enough. There was a vitality back in him. For now, CJ flicked the TV back on. The game was done, but the post-match programme was playing. The Bears had won. Without a word, she pulled up the chair right next to his cot, never relinquishing their contact.

"I didn't imagine you being a fan of this break-neck violence sport." Simon drew his eyes away from the screen, raising his eyebrows in question. CJ continued: "I thought you'd have been a baseball guy, I don't know why..." She pondered it for a second, still watching the little figures on the screen pile senselessly into one another, "Despite appearances, I guess I just didn't see you as a mindless thug." CJ's attention was brought back to the patient as his hand gently squeezed hers. She smiled cheekily at him, and the easygoing atmosphere was where they settled. There were more serious words to be said, but not now. Now was a time for them to be there, together.

TBC-


	16. Lilywhite

**A/N:** For disclaimers, see chapter 1. Thanks for the review, _Kierana_:) Sorry I haven't updated here in a while. More to come post-exams. Thanks for reading, I hope folk are enjoying.

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Chapter XVI: Lilywhite

Simon had fallen asleep long before CJ reluctantly left his bedside. She flicked the TV off, before placing a kiss softly on his forehead: he had stirred for a moment. Gently prying her hand from his, she remembered leaving Hogan like this a few times when she was small. Safe in the knowledge that the occupant of the bed would sleep soundly was the only comfort against knowing that they would wake alone. There would be a day CJ promised herself, that she and Simon would fall asleep together, only this time with the promise to remain in one another's life past 4AM. The promise would be for life. For now, she collected her coat and purse and softly let herself out of his room. Debbie was sat behind the nurse's station, scribbling diligently at some paperwork, looking up at the visitor when she sensed her presence in front of the desk.

"I'm sorry about tonight." The Press Secretary started.

"What happened?" Debbie cut to the chase, quite frankly it still was not OK.

"He... I..." CJ blinked hard under the nurse's unrelenting stare. With her eyes closed, she carried on, images of his contorted face running through the darkness. "I just put my hand on his," her eyes opened, moist with tears, "he thought it was... just pity." Suddenly, the younger woman's eyes softened. It happened a lot, especially with people in Eric's position; her heart went out to the woman before her.

"I had the suspicion that he's not dealing well with the prognosis." CJ didn't really hear the words, instead she looked, teary eyed over to the sleeping man in the adjacent room.

"He knows now though, it's OK."

"Eric isn't going to be OK for a long while Ms Cregg."

"Will he get better?" CJ finally turned back to the nurse, who's tone had still been cautionary – she took a deep breath.

"I'm not the best person to talk to, but I can tell you that there is severe damage that may or may not mend." CJ's eyes begged for a more thorough explanation – and although she wasn't strictly next of kin, Debbie couldn't deny her the truth. "Fractures normally start to mend in six weeks, if it were his arm he'd get a cast off in that time. Now remember that his scapula was actually shattered. Still, there are plates and pins so the bone itself is not that much of a problem. Even the muscle bulk that tightly surrounds the scapula that was torn by shards of bone aren't a long term problem. The real problem is the damage to his nerves, of which there was plenty; even when the bone and muscle structure heals, he may not be able to recover full use of the arm."

"What does that mean?"

"The major nerve that controls the rotator cuff muscles, that's the bit at the top of the arm, has been damaged – we know that much. He's got definite reduced ability in abducting the arm... but he has good movement in the fingers."

"I... I don't know what to say to him – is there a chance he'll regain...?"

"The odds are not in his favour. All that said, Ms Cregg, I don't know if he's mentioned it but there is a new procedure for nerve rehabilitation Eric would be an excellent candidate, fit, strong..." CJ nodded numbly, causing the nurse to stop, both knowing that this was neither of their place to be discussing. "You should get some sleep, it's been a tough night for the both of you."

"Yeah... and thanks – could you tell him I'll come by as soon as I can get away from work?"

"Sure."

"Good night."

CJ felt drained as she reached her car. Unlocking the driver's side door, she wondered how her stranger – the angel – was doing. Silently, she thanked God again for that moment of human kindness; she asked that he, whoever he was, might be comforted tonight. His words came back to her: ' If you didn't love him you'd have never sat down with me'. Was it that obvious? Being in love this time around had been so different to every other time before. This was a love for someone she barely knew, yet someone who she couldn't bear to leave. Maybe they could date when he got out of hospital. Perhaps they could go for late night walks and she could walk closest to the road. When they stopped under the moonlit sky, the stars visible through a soft green canopy of leaves, he wouldn't have to step away. All these things were a dream she had held for a long time. The longest time she could remember. Starting her car, she smiled warmly to herself. Thanks to Simon, she knew how to fit the spark plugs in her car. Damn that man!

Waking, Simon felt oddly at peace. He knew CJ would be gone, yet the feeling of her hand still lingered on his skin. His chest was as sore as hell. Again, he cursed himself for being so short-sighted in his outburst the night before. For all of the pain he had endured since he caught that glimpse of Ron Butterfield in her New York hotel room, there was now some hope. Maybe he would listen to what Professor Khan had to say about rehabilitation today. Perhaps he would actually smile at the physiotherapist. Somehow, he didn't care about his career right now – he had found a future; that future was CJ Cregg. Had there not been a deep-rooted feeling that had tugged so hard on his soul every day since meeting her, he might have passed the urge of as dependence or selfishness. There wasn't an ounce of that feeling though, only of the need to somehow be with her. His mind was buzzing with schemes of ways to make her smile.

Professor Khan swept into the room, beaming as he saw his patient looking so vital after hearing the report of the previous night's complications. For the first time, his warm smile was returned by the patient. They had their usual discussion, and to further surprise on the doctor's part, the patient asked about the nerve damage. Before, they had skirted around the issue, Eric had seemed to depressed to handle the full details, and had closed off or interrupted every time Khan had tried to explain.

"There is minor damage to the bulk of the nerves in the shoulder area I'm sorry to say, Eric. Our major concern, though is the branch of the cervical nerve, C5. It is largely responsible for motor innervation in the scapula region, and in turn, a number of functions of the arm itself." The patient took a deep breath, he knew which had been the frustratingly hard movements during the light physio sessions – he knew the actions he had not been able to make his arm perform at all. Khan went on: "As you may have realised from your treatment, the difficulties lie in any movement that originates from the manipulation of the scapula itself, predominantly, the abduction of your arm." Eric nodded slowly, keeping his concentration. "There is a new surgical procedure that you can put yourself forward for. Of course, you would have to wait for a while, let your body recover from this round of surgery. It will be a long and hard road ahead, I can't tell you otherwise, but there are ways to help it all along... I would be more than happy to refer you to the specialist."

There was hope, real hope. He had a referral and would meet one Dr Mortiz Bauer in a month's time. The late Autumn sun seeped warmth into his room, into his life. The week would go along faster. CJ would visit. Before he knew it, it was Friday and the Miles' would be visiting the following day. The thought brought him briefly back down from his newly elevated position. What would he say to Jodie and the kids? This was one confrontation he had honestly forgotten about – so focused had he been the past few days on recovery and his new favourite project: getting to know CJ Cregg.

Saturday morning came with bright sunshine and cool, crisp air. Danny basked in the warmth of the sun as he noticed a return of that 'je ne sais pas' to the Press Room The sparkle that CJ had been sorely lacking in the past year and a half had slowly returned over the course of the week. It brought a contented smile to his face to see her eyes shine despite the ever-present dark circles. Carol returned his playful grin as he slid past the door after her boss at the end of the Saturday morning briefing. There had been days when he had backed off at the warning in the Press Secretary's Assistant's eyes. Something had changed, and he was dying to know how Eric Orson, or Simon Donovan – he didn't care which – was doing. He burned to know if his favourite member of the Senior Staff was being loved in a way he had once yearned to.

The red-headed reporter found the full frame of CJ Cregg standing still in her own doorway, her hands obviously somewhere in the vicinity of her face. Peering past her slender figure, he caught an eyeful of the cause of her clear shock, or joy... or both. There was a massive arrangement of flowers in the middle of her desk. CJ didn't notice Danny's presence behind her, and advanced over to the beautiful sculpture of fresh, vibrant blooms.

In a simple, elegant hand-made heavy glass vase stood a beautifully arranged collection that must have cost the sender a small fortune. A careful selection of elegant white Leucadendron, scented ivory Lilies, and long-stemmed gold roses, all nestled among tender-looking foliage had filled the room with a delicately sweet perfume and an aura of sunshine.

CJ, clearly stunned, had crossed the room and picked up the small, thin envelope that had been standing against the vase. The reporter watched from her doorway as she removed the card from its sheath with almost trembling hands. Completely white to Danny's eyes, he was surprised by the plain nature of the card, until he saw the flush that came over her cheeks. The message inside was obviously special enough not to need a fancy introduction, or a printed sign as to what the sender's intentions were. He watched her some more: it was clear that her eyes had already skimmed through the whole note, and were going back through – she was taking in every word.

_CJ,_

_I'm no good with words – maybe you've guessed that about me already. All I want to say is thank you, but those two words will never fully express the depth of my gratitude. There is a phrase in Ephari that translates literally as this: 'for all my days I am warm in heart to you' – it is their most reverent form of thanks, perhaps theirs is more accurate of my feeling._

_Yours always,_

_Simon._

The handwriting was neat, perhaps surprisingly so. CJ smiled as light tears spilled from her eyes. They were not the heavy, sorrow-filled tears she had become so often acquainted with; they were the most intimate streams that emanated right from her soul. Danny watched the pearly water glistening over her cheeks. He suddenly felt as if he were intruding on this very intimate and personal moment. There was no doubt in his mind as to who those flowers were from, or the weight of meaning that they carried between sender and recipient. He shrunk back from her doorway, leaving her to savour her joy alone.

Simon sat propped up in the cot, leaning back into a wall of pillows. Although his recent enthusiasm had helped, even just getting dressed with the help of a nurse and a light physio session had tired him out. The gentle exercises were getting moderately easier and less painful, but it would be a long time before he would be able to do them for himself – if he would be able to do them himself.

It was good to be in his own clothes, even if it was limited to an over-sized black Oxford shirt and sweat pants; that Ron had kindly brought him. He had allowed Debbie, on duty for the first time in a few days, to give his rough cheeks a shave, leaving a short moustache and beard over his chin – not yet feeling ready to fully embrace Simon Donovan: Eric was still an easier person to be for now.

He had the TV on, watching the pre-game show for the evening's football. Nervous wasn't even the half of it. To add to his anxieties, he had arranged with Ron for flowers to be sent to CJ – Ron was completely accommodating and had refused to take a message, insisting Simon write it himself – a gesture for which Simon was presently glad. Now, the morning of their delivery, he realised it was playing on his mind equally as hard as figuring out what he would say to his potentially estranged surrogate family. He had hoped the football would take his thoughts from it.

The unmistakable sound of Tori's voice floating out of the elevator set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. For a moment, his mind was filled with memories of the girl. For as long as he can remember, Ferdinand's daughter, Tori wanted to be a ballerina; Simon remembered with a warm fondness, going to one of her first ballet exams. The little girl had been so nervous, and not wanting to let her down, Simon and Ferdinand had rushed from their shift at the Chicago P.D. in the back of a squad car with full blues to make it there on time. She'd been about four then. The brief skip into his past brought up the memory of a feeling that had hit him deep inside that day. The smile on his face had been so broad, and the sight of tears brimming in his eyes had caused the mother of another little girl to congratulate him, as if Tori was his. The brief, but deep pride before the instant heartbreak of admitting he was just a family friend lifted him up then slapped him back hard, even to this day. The yearning for a family of his own slipped into his mind... all the emotions quickly had his eyes well up.

"Hi!" - "Uncle Simon!" - "Hey!" Three greetings simultaneously lit up his room, and the moisture in his eyes was blinked away in a moment. The little girl, who wasn't nearly as little any more rushed over to his bedside, leaning over his lap to plant a kiss on his now smooth cheek. The twelve year old smiled adoringly at her uncle. She recalled only fond memories and was thrilled to see him.

"How are you feeling!" She gasped, her warm hazel eyes beaming at him as her parents peered over her locks of a rich brown.

"Fine, Tori – just fine! How about you, I mean look at you, you've grown up so much!" The girl blushed and smiled bashfully.

"Thank you." She cooed, moving to her mother's side so her parents could get in.

"You're gonna be beautiful just like your Mom there!" The girl turned an even deeper shade of crimson as Jodie stepped in, lightly tapping Simon on the arm:

"Simon!" She greeted her friend with a vigorous kiss on the same cheek as her daughter had placed her tiny peck, holding his face tight in her hands. He was the elder brother she never had. They had all been through rough times together; Jodie walked in on the lives of the two men as they were slowly rebuilding from their respective lows that landed them in Chicago. She looked at him for a long moment, studying his face, searching under the tan and all-too familiar beard: looking for that man – the shattered character she'd met all those years back. There were the tell-tale cracks. Jodie saw right through him, seeing the fear and the apprehension, the raw, open emotional scars that had never really completely healed. He looked different, but somewhere, even deeper under it all, she was greeted by the spirit of the Simon she and her family loved so dearly. Finally, satisfied, she spoke – her tone brimming in jest:

"You grew a beard again?" She questioned, fuzzing his chin before letting him go.

"Hey!" He ducked out of range as she withdrew, "you like it?" The woman chuckled, the same throaty laugh that his friend had immediately fallen for washed over him in a refreshing wave, soothing his wounds.

"It's a bit of a throw back, Simon!" They both giggled, "but yeah... reminds me of Chicago, you were young and handsome then!" Beneath the humour, there was a deeper dialogue between the two. Jodie was reminding him of the darker days when they had first met, and of Simon's fragile temperament back then – she was warning him not to slip back, and at the same time, offering him the flame for a lamp should the darkness start to return. The words hung in the air for a second as Simon realised why she had looked at him so hard.

Pete kicked his feet and sighed on the other side of the room, both unimpressed by the display of affection his mother was showing, and the depth of the gaze they were currently sharing. Mention of Chicago had been the last straw. The smiles faded as everyone turned to the well built teen.

"Hi Pete." Simon made the first step. The kid lifted his head in the most slight acknowledgement. All he wanted to do was kick his uncle's ass, he felt the bile rise in his stomach and hated it. There had been so many times this year he'd wanted – needed – to call his uncle up; in fact he did, only to be greeted with a curt answer phone message. There were things he had always only spoken to his uncle about; things that he never felt comfortable discussing with his parents. While Pete had become used to not seeing Simon come through the door with his Dad when he returned from work, or on the touchline at football practices – the memory, expectation and longing never faded.

"You just gonna stand there?" Simon tried to say it playfully, masking the deep disappointment he felt in himself while they were in front of the rest of the family. Joking like this had always been a vice of his, hoping a laugh would take away from the fact that he was an utter jerk.

Pete shoved his hands in his pockets and said nothing, turning to the window, thinking of just how much of a jerk his uncle was being. Ferdinand was often on the receiving end of these moods, which had come on only since Simon had become more and more involved at work in D.C. It was time he did his fatherly deed and intervene:

"Hey, Tori, let's go and get your uncle a cup of coffee, I bet he's thristy," Pete made no move to join them. "Can you remember how Uncle Simon takes his coffee?" Tori thought long and hard about it, her brown furrowed in concentration. She eventually shook her head, not really bothered that she couldn't remember, but eager to find out.

"Right then, we'll come with you." Jodie offered, the little girl nodded enthusiastically and the three person convoy left for the vending machines three floors below.

Pete looked at the floor. Simon sat on his bed patiently waiting for the eruption. When the boy spoke, however, his tone was quiet, firm and brimming with emotion; his resolve was strong as he locked eyes with the man he held so high.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Pete... please understand that I couldn't."

"Took Dad months to really figure you were gone... I thought you were just being more of a jerk than usual since you got that promotion," he huffed, shaking his head and turning away again, "you totally flipped us for your job." Finally he turned on his uncle, taking firm strides towards him. "Dad was cussing like I've never heard when he called Mom from D.C. - and when he came home... I've never seen him... I had never seen my Father cry!"

"I... I can't defend myself Pete. But I had no choice!"

"But you did!"

"No, I didn't! I wanted to leave your Dad something more to go on, but it all happened so fast!"

"Yeah, that kid, Anthony – great clue, Simon!" Pete had never called his uncle just by his given name; it had always been Uncle Simon, or Foxy... an old nick name from the Chicago P.D. that had solved the problem of toddling Pete not getting his mouth around the complexities of 'Simon'.

"We had agreed about that a long-"

"You tell that chick you were goin?" The change of tac really threw Simon, the teen's words harsh, yet his tone thick with hurt borne of rejection.

"No." Simon's face was open and honest.

"Dad found out for sure when he spoke to her."

"Well, I don't know what she said – all she knew was that I left her high and dry!" Pete's stare was unrelenting, Simon continued: "The night her stalker was caught we..." he took a deep breath, realising that the sordid details would not help. "Pete, I swear all she knew was that I walked out of her hotel room without an explanation, the day I left." In that moment, the pain and shake in Simon's voice melted away some of the resentment Pete held for him. He had never seen hurt in the older man. Pete cut his losses and gave into love; his face softened and he smiled cautiously.

"That can't have been too fantastic, Mr Fox." The smile that broke under the beard at the use of his buddy name was wide and of unbound joy. His smile faded though,

"It was the most terrible feeling, Pete – the way she..." he stopped himself, the boy's eyes not asking him to go back down that avenue of hurt.

"Dad said she was nice too... man that must suck for you?"

"What?"

"Just sucks, y'know, if she was that nice..." Pete thought for a long second, looking his uncle in the face, wondering hard if this was the right thing to be said, and taking the bull by the horns out of concern and curiosity as to the character of this woman. "So she still around?"

"Uh..." Simon scratched his chin, "kinda, yeah"

"Kinda? Kinda how! Jesus, I thought chicks totally hate guys for doing that... come on then Foxy, what d'you say man?"

"I said that I was sorry."

"Sorry? That's it?"

"I said I was sorry, and that I was..." Scared. He couldn't bring himself to say it again, "hell – why am I telling you all this?"

"Cos I have SO crashed and burned in this department, you're meant to be my coach, remember!" They both laughed hard, both relieved to be back to something approaching normality. Simon sobered up, feeling he owed his God-son something more.

"I was scared, Pete." The teen's hazel eyes widened. "I told her the truth. Now I'm telling you."

TBC-


	17. The Unseen

**A/N:** For disclaimers, see chapter 1. I owe the inspiration to get this chapter out to _Dee_, it was your comment on the previous chapter that got me going and fired up. Also, I dedicate this to you because it was originally posted in honour of your first CJ/S vid which was awesome. Feedback makes my day. Enjoy.

**A/N 2: **This is hopefully the beginning of the end... but then I've been saying that since chapter 3...

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Chapter XVII – The Unseen

Pete stood completely still. He was stunned to the bone. His Uncle, his Dad's best friend had never been scared – he was the cocky one, the free spirit: Teflon-coated and eternally bullet proof. 'Bullet Proof' ... Oh God! Maybe, maybe not so much now... As suddenly as his idol's fallibility became unbearably apparent, the extent of his injuries dawned on Pete. His father had shrugged off the severity of Simon's state, but the bandages, the blue sling... He could feel the colour draining from his face, his eyes wandered over the red marks left by numerous IV lines, over the bruising that was a bold tattoo on seemingly delicate skin, and then fixed on the arm in splinting.

"Pete?" He hardly heard his name being called. "Pete... you OK?" Coming back to the concerned, yet firm voice he had always listened so closely to, he finally met Simon's eyes; the kid's own voice was far from steady.

"What happened to you?" Pete's eyes were still focused deliberately on the sling, Simon followed his gaze and took a quick breath – he had explained this in short quite a few times now and was used to it. So much so that the gut-wrenching, all-consuming fire of panic no longer accompanied the words.

"In Ephar, it was during the inauguration parade and..."

"I saw on CNN."

"Well then you know there was an attack – and I just took a hit." Simon casually gestured to his shoulder, omitting the detail that 'a hit' had meant more than just one high calibre bullet ripping into his body. Pete scowled, how could he just try and pass this off so nonchalantly? The edges were beginning to fray around his control over the anger he had harboured for so long – he began to bubble towards explosion.

"Did you mean to?" Although the question caught Simon off guard, the answer came to his mind without any conscious hesitation – his service face was set.

"Yes." Pete took a step backwards in revulsion: his expression that of shock and disgust, his jaw hanging slightly, his eyes wide.

"Why?"

"Because it was my job." The words came easily, a hint of the irritated tone he'd taken to the Press Secretary when she was being difficult surfacing.

"Did you think?" The accusatory words did nothing to change the fact that Simon's eyes were unblinking and emotionless. Yet despite the mask and the clouds that swam over his eyes, there was a terrified man inside who just wanted to curl himself up; he wanted to find for himself a pair of arms to be a shielding cocoon, a warm body that could comfort his soul from all this pain. The words that arrived on his lips were so automatic. No matter how hard he tried, there seemed to be no getting away from the truth - a truth that managed more often than not for him, to cause so much more hurt than happiness. This particular truth was simply the reality of life for a Secret Service Agent: for a bodyguard. Your existence is signed away, bound to the whimsical cycle of hate, justice, and honour... the words took him back...

... and there he is, the sight before him completely real. He is standing with CJ, her eyes glistening, warm with desire. Her expression betrays a fragile feeling of fear – after what seemed to be an eternity, he has ended the most beautiful kiss. He has just pulled away from her perfect lips, the taste of her lingers: exquisite and rich – like velvet on his tongue. The soft light of a solitary corner lamp in her New York hotel room splashes soft shadows over her kind features. She begins to look up ever-so slightly, that now familiarly shy expression on her face. CJ meets his gaze and he finds himself holding his breath. The touch of her hands to him sets his skin on fire, even through the material of his shirt. She pauses. A slight movement of his head and slowly, so slowly, she begins to completely undo everything that he is. His eyes squeeze closed as CJ's delicate hands move the leather of his holster over his shoulders. It is unbelievably sensual, and for the first time in as long as he has been married to this life of carrying a gun, he is able to feel safe without the weight of it close to his body. To be so safe in the small and tender arms of a woman he barely knows is something that causes an unidentifiable and deeply ineffable feeling to diffuse into his body from his very soul. The physical, leather yoke of his pledge to give his life to his chosen duty is very suddenly gone. With shaking hands, she brings the heavy tool of his trade between them, it unmistakably becomes the last barrier in front of something they will never be able to turn their backs on. He opens his eyes and lets the air that has begun to burn his lungs out slowly – he is ready to breathe again. In that moment, he chooses life. Simon Donovan breaks away from the automatic responses, bursts out from behind the service mask, ditching the bodyguard's lonely protocol. He consciously gives himself completely over to her. Choked up and almost quivering, he takes the holster and sets it down without a sound. Simon lets himself fall: her lips catch him with a tenderness he is not likely to ever forget. He falls so deep into her that he can no longer feel where she begins and he ends. Their dance becomes something spiritual. With the physical seal of unspoken promises made, their souls connect in an explosion of colours and sounds so brilliant it leaves them both stunned. His love for CJ Cregg is born...

"No." The vibrant memory faded from his mind's eye as his own words brought him back to focus on the stark reality of the hurt he is about to inflict. "I didn't think." Pete nodded, folding and unfolding his arms across his chest – his eyes were full of rage and he fought hard to keep the contents of his stomach down.

"No!" He stepped closer to his uncle, wanting to lash out physically but holding back. "How could you not think of any of us?"

"Pete..."

"Who the hell do you think you are!" He shouted harshly, waiting with blazing eyes, golden flickers of sunlight burning among the hazel strands of his irises.

"It's not like that!" Suddenly Simon's own frustrations let rip: he desperately wanted to feel safe again, he wanted CJ to come right over and make him into the man who could answer this boy honestly without being torn apart inside. All it would take is a smile, a touch... three small words.

"Then how is it?" Pete's arms swiped at the air in front of him before settling in tight fists at his sides. His feet were firmly rooted to the hard floor. His soft brown hair looked out of place as it settled over his forehead as a strange prelude to the taught features of his face, the strain so painfully evident. He waited... for what came out as a softly spoken reply:

"It was what I owed."

"What?" His face contorted further – confusion adding to the mix. That man CJ had made him didn't show up – Simon's soul cried out in hurt as he forced the words out. This was something that was painful to tell, the memories of a dark time and of a man who was so dangerously near the edge, one who had lost so much...

"Before you were born, Pete, something happened in the field... a... a ten year old kid put himself between me and death – he saved my life, I was..." Broken, completely shattered, I had just lost my Mother and my best friend was almost taken from me... Simon forced his thoughts away from the words he could not bring himself to say, and continued: "that kid... he grew up into the man I took those bullets for." It was that simple, yet through every weakness in him, Simon couldn't bring himself to tell Pete the whole story. To tell him that Ferdinand would have never made it out of Ephar either, the boy might put that incident together with his father's scars, his stiff arm and limp – but Simon somehow felt it not his place to lay it out as it was. It had been because of all the friends had been through that Simon had willingly taken Ferdinand's debt of honour. The circle was complete in a way: if his best friend hadn't been around to have thrown him a line out of that place of complete misery and self-loathing, Simon Donovan would have amounted to nothing more than a washed up drunk. Ferdinand had never asked him to take up his cup, but the day he had married Jodie, his best man had taken him aside and told him it was going to be that way. When Peter Eric Miles was born, Simon's handshake had been more than a congratulations.

"I..." Pete tried desperately to understand what his uncle was telling him – he had heard stories of a man's honour and the admirable exploits of the Rangers; he had been brought up to respect that above all things. Although the words his father spoke had never seemed without depth, at the same time, they had appeared idealistic and old fashioned – it had taken this for him to realise they were real.

"Four men gave their lives for me that day in Ephar. I'm not proud of that fact Pete – they hadn't been to the places I have in my life: they didn't owe me anything... I ate with their families... I played with their children... yet on that day they made a human shield over me because they live by a code of honour. Their tradition was both what led me there, and what brought me home... Pete, I don't expect you to understand this, there's no reason you should... but the job: it's not about thinking." The words had ceased long ago to be automatic, they were heartfelt and true, yet they were resigned in tone; there was regret for those families – there was bewilderment at the amazing devotion and courage that the Ephari way brought out in men.

"You're right, I don't understand." The teen was trembling, frustrated that he suddenly couldn't feel justified in his anger, frustrated that he couldn't understand how strangers' lives could be bound together so tightly. Simon recovered the firm tone that was normal of him,

"But... Pete, above all I need you to know that I love you and your family so much. You mean everything to me, nothing: bullets nor death could change that." Simon sought the changing seas that were the blinking eyes of his God-son, "I hope you understand that." Pete nodded, he held out his hand, and Simon took it. Smiling, they shook as they would have usually hugged, the sentiment just the same, the smiles just as real.

Following the delivery of the flowers from Simon, CJ bounced around the West Wing for the entire morning; even Toby enjoyed life when something put her in one of these moods. He realised as he bathed in her joy that he hadn't felt this kind of warmth in the West Wing in far too long. Josh teased and Donna was openly jealous. CJ enjoyed the flush that came to her cheeks at the mention of the bouquet, and couldn't help the grin that befell her face.

It was approaching the midday briefing when Margaret called.

"Close the door, CJ."

"Leo?" He felt horrible. Throughout this whole saga, he had ended up the bad guy. He sat down, putting his desk between himself and the Press Secretary.

"Did Donovan send you those flowers?" He kept a smile from forming on his lips; he kept the heart-felt joy out of his voice.

"Yes sir."

"You dating?" CJ's smile had long dissolved. Leo's formal tone caused her mind to race. She really hadn't considered the Administration in all of this – the media. Eric Orson had yet to become Simon Donovan to them. While today he was still being protected from the Press, tomorrow he would be discharged from hospital and there would be a media free-for-all. Nothing would change the fact that he was a member of the Secret Service who had not only protected the President of another country – a country who was still not on diplomatic terms with the United States, but he had also been what would be documented as a close confidant.

There were amazing things that love could do, but changing hard facts was not one of them.

"When he gets out of hospital, I had hoped..." against her better judgement and despite the thoughts going through her mind, the words slipped from her mouth in a whisper; her eyes fell to the carpet beneath her feet.

"Two hours ago, President ben-Kurah moved troops into Kokovim, an independent state in northern Ephar." CJ looked blankly at the Chief of Staff, he went on: "Since that time, we haven't been able to make contact with him, and while America is not on diplomatic terms with Ephar, you should be aware that there has been a leak – saying that we are anticipating starting talks with Epahr next month."

"Is that true?"

"It's been discussed, there has been a conversation between the President and ben-Kurah in the last week."

"OK."

"I don't need to remind you that Kokovim covers one of the single richest oil fields in the Middle East... nor that Kurah's first promise to his people was to rebuild their economy."

"I see where you're going, but this doesn't sound like the man who..."

"No... it doesn't, but that doesn't change the fact that it is happening and conclusions will be drawn – it could be more than damaging to the President, CJ."

"I can see that but..."

"You know this thing... with Simon..." Leo sighed, keeping his hands firm on his desk, instinct made him want to hold his head in his hands and plead off taking responsibility for this.

"Won't look good." CJ finished for him, bringing herself up to her full height, her game face now like a shroud over her feelings. Leo caught wind of the professional barriers going up.

"Donovan was a Ranger, a policeman – and technically, he is still a member of the Secret Service."

"Who may never work again!" He ignored her brief outburst and carried on, his tone soft, yet firm.

"But who worked here for nine years – six of which on Eagle's detail – the last few weeks on your detail, CJ! You know how exactly how this is going to look."

"It's going to look exactly how it is, he went there, did a job and came home!"

"And what was that 'job' exactly?" CJ was silent under Leo's glare. "There is a copy of a photograph taken in New York two Mays ago. It's going to be on the front page of every newspaper tomorrow morning."

"What photo Leo?" A sigh filled the room.

"One of you and Donovan... you're... getting very close outside the theatre in New York. The details don't matter – what I'm saying is that there will be a headline in this evening's papers that says our President had a foot in Kurah's camp."

"That photo is misleading, there was... nothing..." She sighed – there was something, but not what was being spoken about here - "there was nothing political Leo!"

"I should hope not!" She took a deep breath, trying to remain composed.

"Simon... he wasn't in Ephar for that reason!"

"How do you know?" CJ was silent, rage building in her – she could not believe the conversation was coming, much less that she hadn't seen it, or even considered it. "Tomorrow Donovan's protection from the Press will end. He'll be discharged, and he can't be seen with you, CJ."

"We could be discreet." Professionalism went briefly out of the window.

"No matter how discreet, you're still a member of the Senior Staff consorting with a man we're frankly trying to distance from the White House!"

"He's done nothing wrong!"

"He broke contract with the Secret Service then trained an army in Ephar, CJ!"

"He headed a security detail to protect Jeremiah ben-Kurah, and then saved his life! A man who will change that country for the better!"

"Look at how he's doing it, CJ! You can't just march troops into an independent state! This Administration can't afford another scandal."

"There is no scandal here Leo! Simon didn't break the rules when he was protecting me, he didn't break the law by leaving the country of his own accord!"

"Using a false passport!" CJ shook her head, this was so far from fair it was untrue.

"Surely he was just distancing himself from the person he is here, trying to protect this Administration!"

"Or was he running? The only reason he ever came back here was for life-saving surgery!" The words stung, and Leo wished them back as soon as they left his lips. Heavy tears welled up in CJ's wide eyes and she held them from falling, determined not to cry.

"No, Leo not now." She couldn't back down.

"CJ, I-am-so-sorry."

"And still you all let me go to him – you still all asked how he was doing... why didn't you tell me to stay away before?"

"CJ, it wasn't always going to be like this..."

"I can spin it." Leo stood up, his hands arched on the desktop:

"No!" He wanted more than anything to let it go. It hadn't been a discussion in the Oval Office. Negotiations with Ephar should have been a joyous occasion, and the noble man they had me that rainy night at Andrew's should have never put them in this position. The Chief of Staff wanted so badly to trust the promise of the desperate woman before him.

"I can do it!"

"No, CJ!"

"There must be a way... I..." ... can't lose him again, her mind finished her sentence. CJ would have never spoken this way to any of her colleagues, never mind that Leo was her superior, but suddenly she was that woman who they had pushed too far. She could not bear losing Simon – the unfulfilled promises of what could be between them ever present in her heart and her mind. Her natural determination told her not to give in. Not to buckle. All this considered, instead of her usual fiery anger, she exhibited nothing but desperation.

"I'm sorry." Leo was deadpan, his word was final. She fled his office, still a tear not shed. In fact it wasn't until she was behind the closed door of her office, facing the beautiful flowers Simon had sent her that she broke. The world was falling around her again. It was another day in this personal hell that had consumed her since the day she received that first email. CJ didn't know what to think, other than that she felt truly sad – it had been this feeling that had propelled her into this life, the man's world, and for the first time in a long while, she seriously thought she was not cut out for it. Denying herself love, denying herself a real life beyond the confines of her career, and this was all she had to show for it: a wreck of a heart. The tears fell now, and they were the thick, full, heavy ones that bitterly stung their way down her cheeks. Long gone was her brief flirtation with the light steams of happiness.

By the time the coffee party returned, it could have been like there were never any cross words between uncle and nephew, or indeed that they had spent months and months apart. It filled Ferdinand with relief to see his family finally back to something resembling normal. Tori proudly presented the cup of coffee to Simon, who gladly took it from her in his good hand. The group descended into a comfortable banter, and CJ started to play on Simon's mind. Perhaps he shouldn't expect her to turn up just because he sent flowers, but he desperately wanted to see her come through the door with that beautiful smile – and know he was the cause. To let these four people who meant so much to him see that he could keep a woman and make her happy. She had promised to drop by if she could get away. Getting her to meet the Miles' was the closest thing he had to taking her home to meet his Mother.

As if catching onto his thoughts through the distant look in his eyes, Ferdinand followed the scent of his friend's distraction immaculately to the White House.

"So, is Ms Cregg gonna be popping in, or are you trying to keep some credibility with her?" He joked, and Jodie thumped her husband lightly on the arm. Simon couldn't help but smile, he was stupid for the woman – a giddy grin was only the half of it.

"I don't know, her schedule is so unpredictable... it might be a heavy new cycle or something, she said she might drop by-"

"Hey, we could catch the briefing, does the hospital have ESPN?" Pete the ever helpful, joined in the fun with his Dad; as a Simon-goading force they were second only to Mr and Mrs Miles.

Gathering herself together with the aid of Carol and a box of Kleenex, CJ strode into the Briefing Room with her usual air of confidence and ownership over what was decidedly now her territory. Today would be no different. As she approached the podium, her eyes fell on Danny Concannon's empty seat. She began.

Danny slammed a Press Corps phone back into it's cradle. He rose swiftly to his feet, realising that he was late for the briefing. The arrival of the scruffy reporter at the back of the room allowed CJ's eyes to be drawn away from the mass of the corps. He looked worried. Her words kept on, slipping out smoothly in a cascade of authority.

"Mike?"

"CJ, what can you tell us about the movement of troops into Kokovim?"

"It is worrying, there is no denying that. We have had no contact with President ben-Kurah and no formal indication of his intentions. I'll have a full comment for you later."

"Sarah?"

"I have a source that says the personal bodyguard to President ben-Kurah was a member of the Secret Service," she looked down to her notes for the briefest of moments, "Special Agent Simon Donovan. Can you comment on that?"

Four sets of eyes widened at the TV, darting immediately to the man lying in the hospital bed between them.

Simon felt his world go dark. He had known it was coming. His cover had been blown on assignments before, but never did he feel so terrified. In his bubble: the safe and sterile world of his hospital room, he had only thought of his future in terms of those closest to him. The enormity of the effects of his now very public presence in Ephar dawned on him.

"We are just learning this ourselves, but we can confirm that identity, yes."

"Did the White House put Donovan in Ephar?"

"Simon Donovan worked for the Treasury Department, but his involvement in Ephar was not born of an order from this Administration." CJ felt the words pass over her lips and closed her mind briefly to the eruption of calls of her name. Danny sat still in among the frenzy, he wanted desperately to set the record straight. She met his eyes, looking to him for a life-line.

"Danny?"

"So there is no truth in the claim that this Administration had, and I quote: 'a foot in Kurah's camp'?"

"None what-so-ever." CJ was emphatic and confident. She could spin this, she could make it alright. It was then that a call came from the back row, hijacking Danny's follow-up:

"CJ, are you romantically involved with Agent Donovan?" The room descended into silence, there was an unwritten, unspoken code of respect in CJ Cregg's Press Room, and one of the rules was not to so completely ambush the woman who had earned that respect. All eyes turned to the burly, brash Barney Fuller.

Nothing could have prepared Simon for that sucker punch. He was winded, staggering backwards, falling. Focused on her porcelain features, the realisation came over him in a wave of nausea. Ferdinand turned to his friend, squeezing his good shoulder.

"You've got to say no, CJ." Simon's voice was brimming with emotion as the whole situation unfolded before him. Timidly, he had admitted it. There was a silence from the podium. "Dammit, say no CJ!" His harried voice urged the TV. Ferdinand's grip on his shoulder tightened. All it had to be was one small movement of her lips, a short expulsion of breath...

"The Staff will not comment on their personal-"

"This is hardly personal!"

"Simon Donovan was the head of my protection detail while I was being-" He committed a lesser Press Room felony and rudely cut in, shouting over her:

"Were you romantically involved?" Paralysed by her inner conflicts, she left herself open for a split second. Fuller did not hesitate, "There is a rather compromising photo!"

Knowing it was coming somehow just didn't help CJ. She stared, not believing that this arrogant, hateful little man was trying to take the best chance she had ever had at real love away from her.

Simon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take a deep breath, shuddering as he struggled to hold onto his composure.

CJ Cregg's face was a closed book. She straightened herself up and gave Fuller a straight on stare as a testimony of her professionalism. Her hands rested easily on the lectern, her voice was even, although perhaps a little weary and she seemed unperturbed. The feeling in the room however, was one of icy tension.

"That was taken over a year and a half ago the moment I got the news I was no longer being stalked, I really don't think-"

"How many times have you visited GW this week?" He had done his homework, consulted his spies, and brought that one blow crashing down on her without a second thought. CJ's posture didn't change. She just slowly closed her briefing book. The only sound was of the odd camera flash. Bringing the book down to her side, she finally spoke.

"I won't comment on that." Fuller smiled like the shark that he was. Cold, insincere, and hungry for blood. "I'll take no further questions." With that she was off the podium, the room stayed relatively silent, the more loyal core of reporters loathing to be associated with men like Barney Fuller.

"Damn it!" Simon exclaimed, slamming his fist into the bed. It fired up the pain in his shoulder, but he welcomed the pain – it distracted from the world falling around him. Ferdinand pulled him into an embrace.

"Breathe slowly, brother." The soothing Ephari words were whispered softly. "Breathe with Peace." This was a time reminiscent of those darker days. Those foreign sounds a reminder of a place long left behind. Yet they had always been the beginning: the first flicker of light. His friend was climbing down into the hole, preparing the way to lead him out.

Barney Fuller sat triumphantly in his seat. She had refused to deny it. There were moments, he reflected, that she was weak. Easy to prey upon. Everyone else refused to see her for what she was – a woman in a man's job. They had accepted it too soon. He would be the undoing of CJ Cregg's dominion in the Room.

Danny started over towards the sixth row, fire in his eyes, professionalism long forgotten in his personal rage. Having only taken two steps, he was stopped by a pair of friendly hands – Katie knew the temper indicative of red-heads that occasionally found its way into Danny's otherwise calm persona. There were short whispered words, warnings not to create a further scene.

Barney Fuller left the room, followed by hateful stares and vicious murmurings. The disgust was palpable – the mass of reporters liked to think they were the flagship of integrity in their field. There was a definite feeling of civil unrest in the White House Press Corps.

-TBC-


End file.
